Dead on Arrival
by Taywen
Summary: At the age of seventeen, Lyme Rook volunteers for the Hunger Games – the ending is set, but what about Lyme's motivations, or the actions that led to her victory? This is the tale of the 48th Games. Rated for language, violence, etc.
1. Happy Reaping Day!

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

This is the story of Lyme's (the commander of the District Two rebels) Hunger Games. However, this story will be told from multiple points of view, though the focus will be on three tributes in particular: Lyme herself and the male tributes from One and Eight.

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><p><em>Happy Reaping Day!<em>

**Lyme Rook, District Two**

The day of the District reapings is a holiday, in Panem. Well, it would probably be more accurate to say that Reaping Day is a holiday in the Capitol – most Districts dread the arrival of the day, when, odds are, two of their children will be chosen to die in a brutal 'game' of the Capitol's devising.

Coincidentally, I happen to live in one of the maybe three Districts that actually looks forward to Reaping Day – District Two. We, more than any other District in Panem, have the highest number of 'victors' of the Hunger Games, so the odds seem to 'be ever in our favour', to quote a much-loathed adage.

Why are we so lucky? Because even though training is forbidden, there is a government-run Training Center in our District. It's for training Peacekeepers – no, really, that's what it's for. The fact that all except the first few of District Two's victors trained there? Completely a coincidence. It doesn't make sense for Peacekeeper cadets to train with swords and bows and other archaic weaponry? You never know what you're going to get into, out in the other Districts. You have to be prepared. And really, ninety-five percent of the cadets do graduate and become Peacekeepers. (Because they're not good enough to qualify for the Hunger Games.)

So that's our story, and we're sticking to it.

I happen to be one of those 'Peacekeeper' cadets that was good enough to qualify for the Hunger Games. And now it's Reaping Day. I stand at the front of the seventeen year old group, staring with feigned interest at our District's escort – Shaney Bloom. She's going on about what a special year this is, isn't it exciting, she's excited, let's start the reaping. Insert exclamation marks where appropriate (i.e. at the end of every sentence).

"Myra Banks!" Shaney reads excitedly, smiling expectantly at the assembled crowd of children aged twelve to eighteen.

A fourteen year old girl ascends to the stage. Every year, without fail, the reaped District Two tribute is replaced by a volunteer – unless they're over sixteen and a cadet, but that's not the case here. Still, Myra looks nervous – probably thinking something along the lines of _but what if this year no one volunteers?_

"Anvel Steel!" Shaney sings out, after Myra reaches her position. A twelve year old boy goes to stand beside Myra. He looks terrified – first reaping jitters, I assume, but come on. The last time a reaped tribute actually participated was... I don't even know when.

"So, everybody, are there any volunteers for Miss Banks?" Shaney asks brightly, her gaze lingering on the seventeen and eighteen year old sections. District Two volunteers almost always come from there, though sometimes the odd sixteen year old qualifies.

"I volunteer," I say, loud enough to be heard, but not shouting. The walk to the stage is short, and Myra gives me a small smile as we pass on the steps, me walking to join the Hunger Games, her hurrying to return to her anonymity, another nameless face in the crowd.

"Excellent! And your name..?" Shaney asks, smiling.

"Lyme Rook," I reply, with a small smile of my own. And then I add, because it's practically tradition, "the next victor of the Hunger Games."

Shaney looks pleased – well, more pleased, anyway. "Ooh, such enthusiasm! I can't wait for the Games!"

I nod but don't say anything – public-speaking has never been my strong suit, but it's like it's an important skill for winning the Hunger Games, so I've never tried to improve it. When I go to stand beside Anvel, I give him a little pat on the shoulder – he looks like he's going to pass out, and I can't help but feel a little sorry for him.

"Any volunteers for cute little Anvel?" Shaney asks.

"I'm not... _cute_," Anvel mutters, sounding outraged, as an eighteen year old boy shouts, "Me! I volunteer!"

I chuckle, amused at Anvel's comment as well as my new partner's apparent enthusiasm as he shoves to the front of his age group, then runs to the stage.

"I'm Cliff Brunt – and _I'm_ going to be the next victor of the Hunger Games!" he announces, glaring pointedly at me. I smile politely back, like, _as if that'll happen_.

"Good luck," Anvel mutters, and I glance down at him, startled. He's staring at me, so he must have meant for the words to be for me. Not Cliff, who replaced him.

"Uh... Thanks," I say, caught off guard. He smiles slightly, then trots off stage, his fear apparently forgotten. What a kid.

The mayor takes the mic now, and starts to read the Treaty of Treason. It might be interesting if it was the first time I'd heard it (it was probably closer to the tenth) and if the mayor had had an expressive voice (it was a slow monotone) but instead I have to struggle to not doze off. At least Shaney's voice is high-pitched enough to be grating, thus ensuring that sleep is impossible.

"Shake hands," the mayor finishes, finally.

Cliff sticks out his hand immediately, a challenging look in his eyes. I just raise an eyebrow, taking his hand in a light grip. Surprisingly, he doesn't try to crush my hand.

Amidst applause from the crowd, we're escorted to the Justice Building for our farewell.

No one comes to visit me, but I'm not surprised. I'm an orphan, so I don't have a family, and I'm also something of a loner. My best (and only) friend, Angioa, has training to attend, if she's going to recover the strength she lost while her broken leg healed, and we already said our goodbyes this morning, before the reaping.

That's a funny story (well, the amount of humour you find in it will probably correspond to how sadistic you are, so maybe you won't find it funny) actually. To qualify as tributes for the Hunger Games, the cadets have to participate in a tournament that consists of one-on-one matches, culminating in a free-for-all with the five finalists to simulate the Career Alliance's breakdown. Obviously, I won that, otherwise I wouldn't have volunteered.

But actually, we (Angi and me) ended up teaming up in the final against our three opponents, and I sort of lost it after two of them ganged up on her while the third kept me distracted. Let's just say, of the living, Angi's wounds were the most severe – broken leg, a few cracked ribs and something other superficial injuries – the other three girls were dead, and I didn't have a scratch on me. I'm not the best cadet at sword fighting for nothing... And I hate it when my friends – well, friend – get hurt.

I used to be jealous of people with families, but Angi is all the family I need, really. And after seeing how hard she works for her family, taking parts of her meals home to the slums for them, especially little Enobaria, her sister... Well, I've never been a martyr like that. It's hard enough caring for Angi, I can't imagine having to take care of a family. Helping Angi by passing her whatever food I can get my hands on is enough work by itself, but it's worth it. She's the one who gave me my token, after all: a friendship bracelet that she tells me Enobaria made for her.

I twist the multicolored bracelet around, studying the alternating pattern of red-black-gray, until the hour is up. Finally, a pair of Peacekeepers comes and escorts me to the train that will take me to the Capitol – to the Hunger Games.

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><p>AN: So this is dedicated to **As You Die**, who wanted me to write something about Lyme. Here it is ~

Comments/suggestions/corrections/criticism? All gratefully accepted. ;)


	2. Welcome to the Arena

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

Updating early because it's Easter, and all. I'll be adding a chapter tomorrow too ~ Otherwise, updates will be on Fridays. :)

Also: they haven't reached the arena yet, the title is just pertinent to Sureal's thoughts, sort of.

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><p><em>Welcome to the Arena<em>

**Sureal Lusion, District One**

My name is Sureal Lusion. You may have been able to guess what District I'm from after hearing that name, but for those of you who are apparently retarded, I'm from District One.

But you're probably wondering, _why the hell do I care about this asshole?_ Well, I'll tell you why: I'm going to be the next District One victor; I'm going to win the Forty-Eighth Hunger Games.

I'm already one-sixth of the way there, too. Ok, that was pretty nerdy – but it's the truth. The only _real_ competitors in the Games are the 'Careers', and I already know that my partner won't be a problem. She's my girlfriend, after all.

Luxy Mont, seventeen, female, smoking hot, a demon with any kind of blade – but alas, not terribly endowed in the mental department. She's about as dumb as my dog – and as loyal too. Luxy just so happens to be totally in love with me – which is why I was so shocked when she volunteered for the Hunger Games. I mean, I'd already secured myself as the male tribute of District One, so why would she go and do that?

"It's because I love you, Sureal," she told me, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek as we walked past the Capitol reporters on the way to the train.

Well. What can you say to that kind of retarded logic? Nothing. But you'd have to be a fool not to take advantage of it.

"I'll protect you with my life," I replied, once we'd boarded the train, pulling her close for a passionate kiss just inside the doorway. I could hear the cameras of the Capitol reporters clicking like crazy – they eat up nonsense like that, after all. Couldn't hurt to play it up.

The doors hissed shut, and we pulled apart. Luxy looked slightly dazed – but she often looked like that, so whatever.

"That's so cute!" our escort, Marcia Fleet, trilled. Seriously, I'm surprised my ears aren't bleeding by now. Anyway, she ushered us to the main train car, where our mentors were waiting. I got Suede Gare, and I didn't spare a glance for the female mentor.

So now we're all sitting around the widescreen television, watching the recap of the Reapings. I force myself to watch them all, even though I know the only real competition ever comes from Districts Two and Four – sure enough, none of the other tributes look remotely threatening.

Luxy Mont, Sureal Lusion, Lyme Rook, Cliff Brunt, Wavy Break, Creston Vast. This year's Career tributes. Four's both volunteered, though sometimes the reaped tribute participates, this year they're both trained. Or stupidly selfless. Point is, they're threats.

As the screen switches from Twelve's Reaping to a talk show about the latest Games' prospects, I turn my gaze from the television. Suede is staring at me, which is kind of shocking, but then again, he's supposed to be my mentor and help me in the arena, so maybe it's not so much.

"Um, what?" I say, pretending to be nervous. My strategy, I've already decided, will be to act weak. Well, weak for a Career, anyway – no point in pretending I'm not at least a little bit competent.

"What do you think of this year's tributes?" Suede asks, raising one dark eyebrow. He's surprisingly dark for District One, brown-haired with a more tanned complexion, though his eyes are still District One blue.

I shrug slightly, looking away. "About as strong as usual..."

"The boy from District Two looked very strong," Marcia says, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes, I mean, that's glaringly obvious.

"Sureal can take him," Luxy proclaims confidently, smiling at me.

I smile back, faintly annoyed by her presence now. She knows me, as well as anyone can, and her being here will be an unforeseen problem. She knows how strong I am, and she'll be able to see through my act in an instant.

Marcia looks doubtfully at me – I'm slim, and the clothes I'm wearing don't exactly emphasize my muscle mass – but tactfully doesn't reply. "We'll be arriving in the Capitol soon, so eat up!" she says instead, as two Avoxes walk in, bearing platters of food.

Luxy and I sit beside each other on one side of the long table. Suede sits beside me, on the end, with Marcia on the other end. Luxy's mentor sits across from us.

Now, I'm not some poor slum boy who's chronically starved – my family is upper class, actually – but the food that we get served is _heavenly_. I probably eat more than I've ever eaten, it tastes so good. Seriously, it's a wonder people in the Capitol aren't fatter.

"Any plans for the Games?" Marcia asks, glancing at us two.

"Actually, I'm planning on acting weaker than I am – that way people will underestimate me," I say. I didn't want to give the game up so soon, but I can't have Luxy wreck my plans.

"Ohh, that's a good idea!" Luxy says. "I'll do that too!"

"It might be suspicious if you're both weak," Luxy's mentor points out, though her voice sounds indifferent at best.

"Yeah... But you can always trick the other tributes with your good looks," I suggest.

Luxy pouts. "I only love you, Sureal."

Her mentor scoffs, gazing at her tribute in apparent disbelief. "Then why did you volunteer?"

"To protect Sureal!" she proclaims.

Suede coughs into his napkin. He seems almost amused.

Luxy's mentor stares hard at her, then me. "Well good luck with that," she mutters.

An uncomfortable silence descends, Luxy glowering at her mentor while Suede watches in amusement. Marcia seems occupied with the fish dish, and I'm alternating between watching Suede and the scenery flashing by through the window.

"Oh! We're nearly in the Capitol," Marcia says. "You'd better go get changed, then come back quick for a briefing."

I'm surprised she even knows what 'briefing' means. I finish the last mouthful of the delicious chocolate dessert, then hurry to my room. It has a bed, though only outlying Districts like Eleven and Twelve need to use them; the distance between One and the Capitol can be traversed in a matter of hours. I choose a dark blue t-shirt, then a pair of black cargo pants. The shirt should go well with my eyes.

I return to the main train car a few minutes later. Luxy is nowhere in sight, and Marcia is absent too. The remainder of our meal has been cleared away, and Luxy's mentor has moved to the couch. Suede is still sitting at the table, looking bored.

"When you get to the Capitol, be sure to play up your good looks," Suede says without preamble once I sit down beside him again.

"Of course," I say, having already planned on doing so.

"Romances are often popular as well – particularly when the lovers are as attractive as you and the girl."

"Her name's Luxy," I point out, privately amused by his seeming disregard for her.

Suede simply arches an eyebrow. "The girl," he agrees.

"You're going to kill her, aren't you?" Luxy's mentor asks, staring at me.

I look at her in surprise – I mean, we're tributes in the Hunger Games; obviously one of us is going to have to die so that the other can live, and I plan to fall into the latter category. Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, again, I manage to make myself sound outraged. "She's my girlfriend – I'm not going to let anyone kill her!"

I get a flat, disbelieving stare in response, and Suede scoffs. Thanks for the support, mentor.

"Ready, everyone?" Marcia asks, bustling back into the room and breaking the tension. Luxy follows her, dressed in a simple dress that accentuates her assets and subtly matches her eyes.

"You look great, Luxy," I say, smiling. She blushes, pleased.

We pass into the tunnel before the Capitol, and then Marcia is ushering us to the door of the train.

Suede follows. "You're going to have to be more convincing, Sureal," he drawls mildly, his voice low enough that only I hear.

I pretend not to, but if the mentors are seeing through my act already, I should probably take his words into account. "We're going to be entering the arena the second we step out... Remember, we can't trust anyone. But don't worry I'll be beside you the entire time, Luxy," I say earnestly.

Luxy nods, taking my hand a moment before the doors hiss open. The cheers of the crowd drown out anything she might have replied.

I step with her into the arena.

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><p>AN: I'm interested to hear your thoughts on Sureal... I was going for a sarcastic-backstabbing-jerk kind of vibe with him. Did it work out?

Comments/suggestions/corrections/criticism? All gratefully accepted. ;)


	3. Capes & Chariots

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

As promised, here's Chapter 3, featuring Cecil Cross. ;) Updates will be weekly, on Fridays, from now on.

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><p><em>Capes &amp; Chariots<br>_

**Cecil Cross, District Eight**

The one good thing about being a tribute from District Eight is this: since our industry is textile production, we usually get some semi-decent costumes for the chariot ride. None of the coal dust nonsense like the tributes from Twelve, or dressing up as trees (District Seven), or... Well, I think I've made my point.

I'm standing on the chariot, wearing some freaky-looking cape that billows majestically behind me, and little else. I probably look ridiculous, but at least I'm not naked and covered in coal dust like District Twelve, who've just come out of the tunnel and appear briefly on the large screen before the camera cuts back to District One (beautiful in jewel-encrusted costumes, as usual).

As long as my cape doesn't get trampled by Nine's horses (I keep looking back to obsessively check), I should be fine.

Well, apart from the fact that I'm going to _die_ in a few days. Getting run over by Nine's chariot suddenly doesn't sound so bad, now.

I have to put up a brave face though; my district partner is trembling like crazy, her knuckles white as she grips the rail of the chariot. Or maybe it's just the jostling of the chariot that's making her shake like that. Not that I care.

This might be harsh, but I know my partner – Jean – from school (we share most of our classes, actually) and I hate her. Maybe hate is too strong a word, but I definitely loathe her. Does she deserve to die? Maybe not; but that doesn't mean I'd hesitate to kill her if it comes down to that.

I have to return to my little sister, after all.

I give the Capitol crowds a brief wave, but no one is even looking at our chariot so I just drop my hand back to my sides.

District One is getting all the screen time, with a bit of Two and Four interspersed. Four lucked out this year, and are in some swimwear. Last year they were fish. So, this is definitely an improvement. Unfortunately, they're not much to look at beyond the awesome costume. Two is dressed in shades of gray, which I guess has something to do with mining? Both the tributes look formidable, and I guess the girl is attractive, but the pair from One are almost perfect and thus get all of the Capitol's attention.

The boy's hair is a slightly darker blond than the girl's, and his eyes are a darker shade of blue as well. His smile is bright – but cold. Well, anyone would be nervous about going into the Hunger Games, even someone who's trained for most of their lives like he has. The girl seems genuinely happy though, and is leaning subtly against her partner.

Finally, all the chariots assemble before President Snow – he's been in power for about five years, now – and he begins the usual speech. Blah blah rebellion blah blah Hunger Games blah blah...

Afterwards, Jean and I just climb into an elevator without a word, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. As the doors close, someone quickly shoves their hand between, halting the motion – and the pair from District Two get in.

Awesome. Just what I need to cheer myself up. Jean hunches her shoulders, as if subtly curling into herself in the corner will allow her to escape their gaze.

"Nice costume, District Eight," the boy sneers.

"Thanks," I say, before I can stop myself.

The girl's gaze flickers to me for a moment, then she presses the 'close door' button of the elevator.

"I guess even garbage like you deserves to have something nice before you die," the boy continues, stepping closer to me. It's an effort not to take a step back in response.

"We're here, Cliff," the girl interrupts, and sure enough the doors slide open with a soft _ding_. I might not like the Capitol (strong loathing seems an apt description of my feelings for it) but I do appreciate the state of the art elevators, at least in that moment.

Cliff grunts and stalks out. The girl rolls her eyes subtly and follows without acknowledging me or Jean.

As soon as the doors close, Jean rounds on me. "What were you thinking, Cecil!" she demands in a hiss.

Whoa, what? What did _I_ do! "Huh?" I ask intelligently. Ok, not my best moment, but let's just put a bit of context in: I'm Cecil, unpopular, nerdy, and far too sarcastic for my own good. This is Jean, psychotic queen bitch - though considering her odds of returning to District Eight are worse than mine, I'm sure she's already been replaced. Point is, I don't think we've ever exchanged two words before, and now seems like as bad a time as any to start.

"Goading him like that! He's going to kill us now!" she snaps, shoving me in the chest. I stagger back, more out of surprise than anything. She hits like, well, a girl.

"Uh, Jean? He was going to kill us anyway," I point out, starting to become annoyed. "Besides, you didn't say anything, so he probably didn't even notice you," I reason.

That really makes her mad. Why? I couldn't tell you. The only girl that has ever made sense to me is my little sister. Jean suddenly launches herself at me, and I grab her wrist before she can claw my face, flailing my other hand in an attempt to counter hers.

_Ding_.

"Cecil! Jean! What are you doing!" our escort, Kyte, demands. He's standing next to our mentors, who are staring at us with amusement (from my mentor, Denim) and mild concern (Jean's mentor, Colleen).

"He attacked me!" Jean practically shrieks, jerking away from me. I let her wrist go, staring at her in disbelief.

"Cecil!" Kyte says sternly. "You shouldn't take your anger out on Jean. Just because you have very little chance of winning doesn't mean rule-breaking is acceptable."

Oh, thanks. Like Jean has a better chance than I do. Isn't an escort supposed to support their tributes? You'd think he could do that for the all of five days we'll be together before the arena, but apparently he's too incompetent for even that. Do I hate him too? Oh, yeah.

"What! I didn't _do_ anything!" I protest, trying to make myself heard over Jean's indignant, pretty much incomprehensible shrieks. Judging from the set expression on Kyte's face, it's not working. Or maybe he's just annoyed that Jean's busting his eardrums.

"She's the one who attacked me!" I try again, but Kyte is already ushering Jean away. Well, good riddance.

"Bitch," I mutter under my breath, going down the opposite hall towards my room. Den falls into step beside me, which is kind of weird, but whatever, maybe it's a mentor thing.

"Nice costume," Den remarks.

"That's what Cliff said," I mutter, annoyed.

"The boy from Two?" Den asks, halting. I would have kept walking, but he grabs my upper arm, stopping me as well.

"Yeah," I say, not really wanting to talk about. I just want to go into my room, rip this stupid cape to shreds, and go to bed. Is that so much to ask for?

"Hm. I guess it's too much to hope that you didn't respond to that," Den states, like he's not even talking to me.

"All I said was 'thanks' – apparently being polite is a crime now, because Jean flipped out after they got off the elevator," I snap resentfully. I know this isn't Den's fault, but he's the only one around for me to take my bad mood out on, so.

Den rubs the back of his neck, looking rueful. "Look, don't worry about it. I'm sure someone else will mouth off to them."

"Yeah, ok."

"Cecil- I'm serious. You didn't say anything else, did you? He'll probably forget about it," Den says earnestly. He seems to genuinely want to help me.

I shrug. "You're right," I agree, hoping he'll leave me alone. I appreciate that he wants to help me, but the odds are stacked heavily against the 'regular' tributes – and I don't have any hidden skill, or something like that. I work in a textile factory, after all.

"Get some sleep. We'll talk about training strategies tomorrow morning," Den remarks, finally releasing me.

"Can't wait," I say, turning away.

"That's the spirit, Cecil."

I'd like to say I didn't cry myself to sleep that night... But I did.

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><p>AN: First, thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. You're awesome ~ !

Second: aha, everyone seemed to dislike (hate?) Sureal, which is awesome since that's what I was going for ~ (I actually like him, what does that say about me... lol.)

For Cecil, I was trying to make a snarky, doesn't know when to shut up, scared kid. Did it work out? ;)

I'm kind of torn about who I like better, Sureal or Cecil... I guess I like them both. Any opinions? (Maybe you hate them both, lol.)

Comments/suggestions/corrections/criticism? All gratefully accepted. ;)


	4. Lunch & a Show

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

Thanks as always to the people who reviewed the past chapters.

Special appreciation for my repeat reviewers: **As You Die, cindella and Temerice** - you guys are awesome! ;)

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><p><em>Lunch &amp; a Show<br>_

**Lyme Rook, District Two  
><strong>

Training passes in a blur. I can't say if it is any different than it usually is, but I assume that it is mostly the same.

We Careers dominated the weaponry stations. I wasn't intentionally trying to scare the other tributes away, but I'm pretty sure that was Cliff's plan. It made sense, to prevent the other tributes from getting any practical instruction with the weapons – they were even less of a threat that way – but I couldn't help but wonder if that wasn't unfair. I mean, it would've been three days' training, at most. Surely that wouldn't have made much of a difference in the grand scheme of things?

Maybe, maybe not. It's too late to dwell on that now; the Career Alliance has been finalized (not that there was ever any real doubt about that) and I have gathered as much information about my fellow Careers as possible during training.

Cliff seems to be the most formidable, and I don't think I'm conceited when I claim to be the second strongest tribute. Creston, from District Four, is next; but he seems infatuated with his partner, who is definitely one of the weaker Careers. Could this affect how things turn out in the later days of the Games? Probably. As for the pair from District One... the situation is pretty similar to District Four, except the roles are reversed. Luxy seems obsessed with Sureal (he's certainly attractive, but then so is Luxy herself), but he seems weak.

Hopefully I'll be able to gain a little more insight from the training scores – tributes have been known to deliberately save their talents for the private session with the Gamemakers, garnering a high score to draw sponsors and put the competition on edge as they try to guess how the tribute got such a score.

I catch myself nervously clenching and unclenching my fists as I wait for my turn with the Gamemakers. Luxy has already gone, and Sureal just got called in; I'm up next. Objectively, I know I can get a nine, at least, but I'm still nervous. Cliff is obnoxiously discussing his strategy to impress the Gamemakers with Wavy, who seems disinterested at best. The other tributes look nervous, and keep shooting scared glances in our (more specifically, Cliff's) direction. Not that Cliff notices either of these facts.

An Avox exits the training room and beckons to me.

I walk over, and the Avox closes the door behind me. I'm alone with the Gamemakers, apart from several trainers.

"You may begin, Miss Rook," one of the Gamemakers says. I notice that they seem to be having a feast – though it's still in the early courses. I can't imagine what it'll be like when the real food comes out, probably around the time the higher Districts will be ushered in.

_Unfair_, I think again, but don't say anything. It helps me out, so complaining about it wouldn't make any sense. I go over to the sword fighting station, where two trainers are ready to spar with me. I spar with them both for about five minutes, then disarm one. He steps away, and I focus on the other trainer – me showing off a bit before I disarm him too with a flick of my sword. He gives me a tight smile and bows slightly.

"Thanks," I say, because I feel like that's what would be right. I then go to the knife station, and throw a couple of knives at the target. Two of the five are bull's eyes, and the rest are all tightly packed near the center, but it's probably obvious that I'm better with a sword. Still, I'm better with a knife than any of the non-Careers, I'm sure.

I do some climbing, but again I'm not _great_ at it. I stop off at a few other stations, then wander back to the middle of the gym. The Gamemakers have been watching me the whole time, taking notes and occasionally murmuring to one another, but none have said anything to me.

"You may go," the same Gamemaker says, and I might have laughed at how grave he is, but he's going to decide if I'll be a standout, or just another Career, so I don't.

I go back to the second floor, where Shaney, my mentor (Basyl) and Cliff's (Calse) are waiting. Our stylists are there too, but I don't really care about them. I mean, they dress us up, and I appreciate that I didn't look like a fool like some of the other tributes, but having to deal with Shaney is enough. I don't have the patience to deal with someone who is disturbingly like her, except a man. I'm not rude or anything – but I don't feel any attachment or affection for him.

Anyway, Basyl immediately asks, with her usual efficient brusqueness, "How did it go, Lyme?"

I shrug. "Perfectly. I didn't mess up once, and the Gamemakers were all paying attention," I answer.

Basyl nods. "Lunch is waiting – we can talk more there," she suggests, and I follow her into the dining room. My stylist comes too, but the rest of the District Two entourage stays near the elevators, waiting for Cliff.

Basyl is... well, in a word, efficient. She's impatient and sharp, but fair, and thankfully I can keep up with her. If I couldn't – well, I don't think we'd be getting along quite this well.

"What do you anticipate scoring?" Basyl asks once we're seated, as I'm serving myself some lamb stew.

"At least a nine," I state confidently, and I'm probably undervaluing myself with that estimate.

My mentor nods as we begin to eat. A few minutes later, she says, "Cliff is better than you."

I stiffen slightly, even though I've come to that conclusion myself. "Yes," I agree, tersely.

"But you're smart. Smarter than him, certainly – but smarter than the other tributes?"

Am I? I like to think that I know my limits, my strengths and my weaknesses, but none of the other tributes really stood out, intelligence-wise. Except... "Sureal," I blurt out.

Basyl stares at me steadily, silently prompting me to continue.

"I don't know – he acts weak, but he's always... _watching_. During training, I felt like he was hiding something," I explain, feeling foolish for voicing my stupid insecurities in front of her.

"Cliff says he's a weakling," my stylist puts in.

Cliff says everyone's a weakling, though. I just nod, not wanting to contradict him.

"It's not bad to be cautious of your allies – you know they're just waiting for the chance to stab you in the back, anyway," Basyl says, not contradicting my stylist's words, but not dismissing my concerns either. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you that, but if you have a bad feeling about him now, you're probably right. _But_, don't forget to watch the others either. You can't trust any of them."

I nod, wanting to say more, but at that moment Cliff gets back from his session and immediately hijacks the conversation with tales of his amazing exploits. Not that I mind, because I don't want to discuss things around him anyway, but it would be nice if he spoke with something closer to an 'indoor voice'. I can only hope he'll quiet down a little in the arena.

After lunch, Cliff and I are separated again – interview prep, we're told, and I definitely do not want to be coached along with him. Tomorrow is reserved for that, since the interviews are in the evening, but since we're so close to the beginning of the Districts, we have pretty much the afternoon left while the other Districts perform for the Gamemakers.

I spend some time with Shaney, who grills me for almost half an hour about my session with the Gamemakers, then we spend the rest of the afternoon going over how to walk in high heels, with a tight skirt, etc. It's probably one of the most painful afternoons of my life. I'm so happy I could cry when we have to stop for supper, and then the training scores are to be aired.

We crowd into the television room, Cliff eagerly securing the spot closest to the screen for himself. I sit myself comfortably on a couch, feeling rather eager myself. I don't show it, though. Dignity, keeping up appearances, and all that. I'm more of a reserved person anyway.

Luxy's face appears on the screen, a 9 flashing next to her. Then Sureal, who's earned himself a 7. Like I thought, weak for a Career; typically we score 8's or 9's. 7's are rare. (Conversely, if a non-Career scores a 7, it's quite an event. If they score higher? Well, let's just say I can only remember it happening once, and that tribute went on to become a victor.)

My headshot is next and I score... a 10. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, relieved.

"Good job, Lyme!" Shaney cheers, along with the two stylists. Basyl gives me a slight smile. Cliff appears next, scoring a 10 as well, and everyone congratulates him too.

District 3's tributes both score 3's. How ironic. Well, no one expects great things from them. That's a harsh assessment, but it's true.

Wavy is next; she scores an 8, and Creston gets a 9.

I've scored strongly, but then so did most of the Careers; usually there is a more equal distribution of 8 and 9's, with maybe one 10 – but not this year. At least the rest of the tributes aren't anything amazing. There's one or two 6's (the boys from Eight and Twelve), and the rest are distributed between 2 and 5. Nothing worth worrying about.

"Well, I think it's time for bed!" Shaney announces cheerily. "I know that I have a party to attend, and you two need to rest up for your interviews tomorrow!" she adds, glancing between Cliff and me.

Cliff protests, but I just nod. I can always talk to Basyl tomorrow, and with my 10, I'm sure I'll draw lots of sponsors – as long as I do well on my interview.

I try not to think about the imminent public speaking... If there's one thing that scares me, it's standing in front of a crowd and talking. Performing for the Gamemakers was hard enough, and now I'll have to be presenting myself in front of all of Panem...

I push those thoughts from my mind and think about Angi, back in District Two. She's probably home right now, with her sister. I've never met Enobaria, but Angi talks about her all the time, so much so that I feel like I know her.

I finally fall asleep thinking about family and home.

* * *

><p>AN: Aaand, another chapter featuring everyone's favourite D2 rebel leader. ;) I realized when I reread the chapter that I messed up the training session order, it's supposed to be guys then girls... Oh well. It was necessary. Lyme needed some interaction with her mentor. (Read: I was too lazy to go back and fix it.)

Comments/suggestions/corrections/criticism? All gratefully accepted. ;)


	5. Plotting

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

Thanks as always to the people who reviewed the past chapters.

In case anyone is interested, they'll be reaching the arena in two chapters. ;)

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><p><em>Plotting<em>

**Sureal Lusion, District One**

Suede wakes me up at about seven in the morning the day of the interviews.

"Do you know what time it is?" I snarl, before I remember that I'm supposed to be pretending to be meek.

Suede smirks. "Good morning to you too, Sureal," he says, too damn smug and cheerful for this time of the day. I resist the urge to punch him in the face, if only because I'm too groggy and he's still young enough to be able to keep up with me. He won his Games less than ten years ago.

"What do you want?" I mutter, attempting to tune out his answer by pressing my face into the pillow.

"To talk strategy, of course," Suede replies brightly, flopping down on the bed beside me. I've come to realize that he is really eccentric (aren't all victors?) but this is kind of pushing it.

"Get off," I say, flatly, the effect somewhat ruined by the fact that my voice is muffled from speaking into my pillow.

"Ask nicely," Suede admonishes me. I can't see his face, but I can just imagine his mischievous smirk. He acts polite enough around the others, but when we're alone he's like an irritating kid who doesn't know when to stop teasing.

"Get off...now." I raise my head and glare.

My mentor chuckles. "Worried about someone seeing? Wouldn't that be a scandal...? Or maybe you're worried about your beautiful girlfriend walking in?" he asks slyly. "It would be inconvenient if she decided to see you as a threat, wouldn't it."

"Shut up, just shut up. I'm getting up now, so go away," I snarl.

Suede laughs outright now. "If you're not out in half an hour, I'll be forced to come back and check on you," he tells me.

"I'm going!" I snap, rolling out of bed and stalking towards the attached bathroom. "I'm taking a shower so-"

"-you want me to join you?" Suede asks innocently, batting his eyelashes at me.

Sometimes words just aren't enough. I flip him off, and slam the door behind me.

"Half an hour, Sureal!" he calls, and then leaves. At least, I assume he leaves because he doesn't say anything else, and when I come back out of the shower (strawberry-scented, much to my disgust; the showers are too fancy, much like everything else in the Capitol) he's gone.

I pull on a pair of plain black pants and a blue t-shirt – my entire wardrobe seems to consist of blue or black, so it's a good thing I like those colors – then walk into the dining room. A buffet has been set out, and Suede is munching away at a stack of pancakes.

Two Avoxes stand nearby, but I barely notice them, and no one else is around, so I feel like I can talk freely. Suede has let me know subtly (until this morning) that he knows I am faking it. He can see right through me, and seems to find my efforts _amusing_. I'd be insulted, except he has proven to be helpful, and I'd have be an idiot to reject my mentor.

"Hm. Twenty-nine minutes," Suede observes, checking his watch for effect.

I ignore him and serve myself, before sitting across from him at the table. "I'm assuming you want to talk strategy?" I question, feeling more alert thanks to my shower, but by no means in a good mood.

"You're just full of insight, aren't you?" Suede drawls, pouring some more syrup over his pancakes. I glare, not bothering to reply verbally to the taunt.

"Well, I'll get right down to business, then," he sighs, then puts a large forkful of pancake until his mouth. It feels like it takes him at least five minutes to chew that one mouthful. I can almost feel my eyebrow twitching from annoyance.

He swallows. "Perl knows that you're faking it," he tells me. I shrug, having come to that conclusion myself. It's not like she's going to do anything – after meeting Luxy, she seems to have given up hope for her tribute winning. To be honest, the only one who doesn't realize that I'm only with Luxy because it's convenient is Luxy herself; everyone in District One is perfectly aware of the nature of our relationship, and how one-sided it is. However, the Capitol eats that nonsense up, so it's useful to continue the sham, for the time being anyway.

"So what?" I ask.

"So, she's probably going to tell Luxy. The girl has a shot at winning, if she gets over her ridiculous infatuation with you," Suede says, all pretence of light heartedness gone from his face and voice now.

I scoff. "Luxy won't believe her," I say confidently.

"Are you really going to keep up that pretence in the arena?" Suede asks, arching an eyebrow. "Your 'allies' could decide you're a liability they need to eliminate, to get to Luxy, since you've made yourself look weaker. Speaking of, you _are_ stronger than her, correct?"

"To the first – as long as it's useful. As for being a liability, if they underestimate me it should be easy to take them out. In terms of fighting ability... I probably could have pulled a 10 in training, if I'd put my mind to it," I answer, after glancing around to make sure no one else is here to listen to this. The Avoxes are studiously staring into space.

Suede nods. "Good. You should get rid of her at the earliest opportunity – preferably at the bloodbath."

I blink, the thought having not actually occurred to me. Sure, I was planning on killing her or manipulating a situation where she would die, but on the first day..?

My scepticism must have shown, because Suede explained, "In the chaos, it should be easy to get rid of her without implicating yourself. That way, she'll be out of your way, and no one else will be the wiser."

I nod slowly, warming to the idea. "That makes sense. But I'll only do it if I have the perfect opportunity," I agree.

"Of course." He abruptly switches topics with, "Now, don't think before answering the questions, just say what comes to mind: on a scale of one to ten, how sadistic would you consider yourself to be?"

"Seven," I reply without hesitation, surprising myself.

"Squeamishness? One being not squeamish at all, ten being deathly afraid of the sight of blood."

"Two. Maybe a three," I answer.

"All right. What's your position on torture?"

I blink again, caught off guard. "I can think about this one, right?" I ask, to stall for more time.

Suede just stares at me, like, _aren't you doing that already_. "Think as long as you want. And don't answer what you think I want you to say, either. Ah, good morning, Luxy!" he says, his cheerful last words confusing me, but then I'm being awkwardly hugged from the side by my girlfriend.

I must have an annoyed look on my face as Luxy squeals something in my ear, because Suede chokes on his pancakes and quickly looks away, but not before I see the amusement in his eyes.

A few minutes after Luxy came in, Marcia, Perl and the two stylists show up, and it's all talk about the upcoming interviews.

Breakfast seems interminable, but finally I'm alone with Suede again, the two of us in his room, while Luxy, Perl and Marcia stay in the dining room.

"So, have you thought of an answer?" Suede asks, draping himself lazily over the armchair in his room. There's a sort of sitting area near the door, with the bed on the far side of the room. I take a seat on the couch opposite him.

"I know that it's popular with certain parts of the Capitol. I'd be willing to do it, if I thought it would improve my chances of winning," I say. "But that's the question – will I gain more fans than I'll lose?"

Suede shrugs. "To be honest, I don't know. I do know that tributes in the past who've used such methods have often received better weapons as gifts," he answers. "But with your good looks, you'll be getting plenty of sponsors anyway."

"Now you're just flattering me," I say, grinning slightly. I'm in a better mood now, so his subtle teasing doesn't bug me as much – and I can think of better comebacks, of course.

He smirks in return. "If you kill Luxy early on, that could alienate sponsors who are into your 'romance'. On the other hand, the sponsors that find you desirable will think you even more attainable. Again, it's a tossup."

"I'll seduce the girl from Two," I joke.

"It's a viable strategy, if you think she'll be interested," Suede says neutrally, his gaze sharp. "She's proven herself to be a strong competitor, anyway."

I shrug noncommittally. Honestly, I don't want to be known for winning the Games on my looks. It's stupid to not take advantage of your natural assets, but I want to be known for something other than being handsome.

"Anyway. Interviews. I'm sure a smart boy like you has some strategies up your sleeve – you're continuing the 'weak Career' act, I'm assuming?" Suede asks, changing the subject.

I nod, and spend pretty much the rest of the day practicing answering questions that he says Caesar Flickerman might ask me. And it won't hurt to stay in-character either – I've been letting myself slip around Suede, which is acceptable right now, but in the arena it could be the difference between life and death.

* * *

><p>AN: So, here's another chapter from Sureal's POV. The real question is, will he go along with Suede's suggestion or not. Who knows? Any opinions on that point, btw?

Comments/suggestions/corrections/criticism? All gratefully accepted. ;)


	6. 3 Minutes of Fame

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

Thanks as always to the people who reviewed the past chapters.

* * *

><p><em>3 Minutes of Fame<em>

**Wavy Break, District Four**

I take the stage after the terrified boy from Three staggers back to his seat. District One dazzled; there's no other word to describe the effect Luxy and Sureal had upon the audience.

Luxy's interview angle was sexy all the way, though she ruined it with her constant reference to her love with Sureal. Maybe the Capitol likes romance, though, because they sure cheered when her interview was over. Or maybe they were just happy she was gone.

Sureal charmed the audience in his interview; he came across as self-deprecating, and a little bit nervous. During the whole interview, the camera was focussed on his face. He's handsome, I'll admit – he has dark blue eyes, with dark blond hair that curls up on the ends and hangs around his ears. He's only about five foot nine, and lean, built more like a runner. Next to Cliff and Creston, he's, well, dazzling. He even said that he'd die for Luxy – earning numerous sighs from the women in the audience. Romantic, right? I'm not sure if I believe him or not.

I'd have to be with the Capitol about Sureal, if I was into backstabbing jerks. He might act timid and weak, but I can't shake the feeling that there's more to Sureal than the wimpy act he's shown everyone. ...Not that I can talk, seeing as I've got the second lowest score of this year's Careers.

Lyme seemed nervous, but she hid it well. She's by no means beautiful, but I wouldn't say she's ugly either, and the dress that her stylist put her in was eye-catching. Her interview was nothing spectacular, though she did promise to give the Capitol a good show. That got a lot of cheers.

Cliff was next, and was suitably bloodthirsty for the Capitol's tastes. I guess he makes up for his lack of good looks with those huge muscles. And he towers over Sureal, at about six foot three. Too bad he's an idiot. The Capitol seemed pretty enthusiastic though.

Come to think of it, the Capitol seems pretty enthusiastic about everything Hunger Games-related, particularly the Careers that always put a show on for them.

And now it's District Four's turn. I'm up. I sit with my legs crossed, staring at the man seated across from me. Caesar Flickerman, a fixture of the Hunger Games for as long as I can remember – this year's theme is purple. Bright purple. I'd say he looks more freakish than usual, but that would be a lie, because he always looks freakish.

"Wavy, may I just start off by saying that is a _beautiful_ dress," Caesar says, smiling. I notice his gaze isn't drawn to the gaping neckline (naval line seems more accurate), so that's something. I smile back, glancing down demurely.

"Thanks, Caesar," I murmur. "I really like the purple this year. It's probably my favourite, after the orange two years ago."

"Oh, stop. You're too kind to an old man," Caesar jokes. "So, to business. What's your plan in the arena? An 8 isn't too shabby, but this year..." He trails off, but I can hear the implicit statement: _but this year it's weak._

I smile at him, ignoring the churning in my stomach. "Well, a training score isn't everything. I don't think I need to point out all the times that tributes who don't get the highest score have won," I say sweetly. "Let's just say, I won't disappoint you in the arena."

"Of course," Caesar agrees. "I wouldn't count you out of the running for a moment, my dear."

"And there are many qualities that aren't evaluated by the Gamemakers – so there are still a lot of chances for a tribute to surprise you." I nod towards the audience.

"All tributes have a chance to win," Caesar summarizes, nodding. "What are you plans if – or should I say, when – you win, Wavy?" he questions.

"Settle down, start a family – I like to sing, but my family isn't exactly rich. If I won I could easily start a career," I answer. "And help my family move into a better place."

"You sing? Perhaps you could give us a demonstration?" Caesar asks eagerly, but the buzzer goes off. "Ah, too bad. I guess we'll just have to wait until you win for you to serenade us."

I nod and give the audience a small bow before I return to my seat.

* * *

><p><strong>Helice Etern, District Five<strong>

I'm petrified – but who wouldn't be? I know that I'm not going to win; I'm only thirteen years old. The youngest winner ever was fifteen – and he was a Career.

My odds of winning? Zero. And I should know – I'm a genius, after all. The smarter tributes sometimes manage to pull a victory... But I don't think I'm going to be one of those lucky few. It seems more likely that I'll die in the bloodbath. I've never been athletic, I can't run for more than ten minutes at a time, I have no survival skills...

I could go on, but why get myself more depressed over my pitiful chances, on the last night before I enter the arena?

The buzzer goes off, signalling that Creston Vast's interview is over. Now, that guy has a shot at winning. He's eighteen, a Career and absolutely deadly with a spear (I should know, I spent the first day of training watching the Careers in the hopes it might give me some insight for a victory... instead, it just made me feel even more weak and hopeless).

After watching the painful interviews of the tributes from District Three – they were stammering and visibly sweating, they were so scared – I am determined that my interview, at least, will be dignified. This will be the last time I can at least try to control my fate, and I will show a brave face for my family.

"So, Helice, you scored a 5 in training – that's rather impressive, for a thirteen year old," Caesar remarks.

I stare at him; he's supposed to help tributes, I thought. If he hadn't added that last part, I'd be feeling a bit better, but now I just feel worse. And angry. As if it's my fault I'm only thirteen, and therefore have literally no chance of winning. Even Flickerman can't bring himself to really make it seem like he thinks I have a chance.

"Yes," I acknowledge, but don't offer anything more than that.

"What sort of skills earned you such a score? Do you have any plans for the arena?" Caesar asks, giving me a kind smile.

I shrug. "I have a good memory. It helped me to memorize the edible plants. I swept the tests in my session, which is probably how I managed to scrape a 5," I say flatly. "As for plans in the arena? I have none. What's the point of planning, when you have no chance of winning?"

Someone behind me laughs: it's probably a Career. Cliff Brunt, maybe. The Capitol audience is silent. A quick glance confirms that they seem a mixture of confused and annoyed at my audacity.

"Well, that's not true. You seem like a smart young lady, I'm sure you have a decent shot at winning," Caesar tries to gently reassure me. Too bad this is basically word for word what he said to the boy from Three; but even if it wasn't, I know I wouldn't be fooled for a moment. Before I can answer, he adds, "I'm sure your family's watching this. Is there anything you want to tell them?"

I turn to face the cameras. About a minute and a half must have past, meaning my interview is already half over. "Thank you for taking care of me," I say earnestly. "I'm sorry if what I've said hurt you, but I don't want you to get your hopes up. We all know I'm not coming home. Please don't feel guilty. Disregarding the training where the stronger tributes made it clear I have no chance, life in the Capitol has been pretty good... I don't have any regrets."

The last part is a lie; I regret not having the chance to grow up, fall in love... Live my life...

"Thanks for listening," I finish, sarcastically. Because everyone in Panem is watching this, and no one has a choice in the matter.

The buzzer goes off right after, and I return to my seat. I'm trembling a moment later, my fear returning as my anger recedes. If I wasn't marked for death before, I'm sure I am now.

* * *

><p><strong>Shear Harve, District Ten<strong>

By the time it is my turn to be interviewed, the Capitol audience is obviously bored. I can see pockets of them whispering, and some of the seats have emptied, compared to how packed they were when the Careers were being interviewed.

You'd think they could put up with the hour and a half that it takes to interview all the tributes, but I've come to realize that Capitol citizens don't understand the concept of having to do something they don't want to. I guess now that all the interesting tributes (the Careers) have been interviewed, they're bored.

Caesar Flickerman gamely ignores them. "Good evening, Shear," he says brightly. "How are you feeling – a little bored, having to wait for your turn?"

I shrug. "I guess," I mumble, gazing down at my hands. The shiny material of my dress is a stark contrast to my dark skin.

Caesar tries to coax me to say more, but I've never been good with words and I don't see any reason to change that now. "How's life in the Capitol treating you, my dear?"

"It's good," I answer quietly. If it wasn't for the mic on my chest, I'm sure no one would be able to hear me.

"You're the youngest tribute in the Games – what sort of strategy do you have in mind?" Caesar persists, resorting to asking me about strategy, even though he never asked any of the other tributes, after Helice from District Five's disastrous response. I wish I could have the courage to speak as openly and rudely as her, but I don't.

"I'm good at hiding," I say, forcing the words out of my dry mouth.

Caesar nods. "That's an important skill. Well, don't get too down. That three you got in training doesn't mean that you have no chance," he says encouragingly. "Remember what Wavy said."

I'm pretty sure Wavy just said that to make herself look better, instead of being seen as one of the weaker Careers. I nod, still not looking up at Caesar, much less turning my head to the side to see the bored, unfeeling audience.

The rest of the interview goes like this, and I breathe a sigh of relief that is almost a sob when the buzzer rings. I hurry back to my seat, almost tripping over my skirt in my haste. Barely anyone claps. I know my mentor told me to play up my vulnerability to get more sponsors, but I'm pretty sure I failed that –I just got on to the stage and froze up.

I guess all hope of me winning (not that there was much to begin with) is gone now.

* * *

><p>AN: Sorry for the delay! I was really busy yesterday. Anyway, I'll be posting another chapter tomorrow to make up for it. We'll be entering the arena ~~ So stay tuned. :P

Comments/suggestions/corrections/criticism? All gratefully accepted. ;)


	7. Let the Games Begin!

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

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><p><em>Let the Games Begin!<em>

**Cecil Cross, District Eight**

My stylist wakes me at six in the morning. I feel pretty crappy after my interview yesterday night, but at least I can say it wasn't a complete disaster. Compared to some of the tributes, I positively shone. I paled in comparison to the Careers though – like there was ever any doubt there.

"Get up, Cecil," my stylist says, subdued for once. I guess he's not used to waking up this early, or something. Whatever, I'm just happy he's not his usual, obnoxiously bubbly self. (My perception of him may or may not be skewed from my resentment over him putting me in a _cape_ for the chariot ride.)

Den is waiting outside, looking very alert in contrast to my stylist and me. "Good luck, Cecil," he says earnestly.

"What are my odds?" I ask, because I know the bets must already be in, even though the Games haven't officially started yet.

"You're doing better than most," Den says, which can mean just about anything. Maybe my 6 in training (I got the best of any of the regular tributes, so I guess that's something) and my interview with Flickerman (the crowd seemed to find my jokes at least a little bit funny) got me some sponsors. Or maybe he could be lying to make me feel better. I can't tell which is the case, and it doesn't cheer me up in the slightest. On the bright side, it doesn't make me feel any crappier than I already do.

"Shh. You're not supposed to say, Den," my stylist admonishes.

"No one will know if you don't tell," Den counters. "Right?" He smiles.

Given my stylist's reaction, I'm inclined to believe that the first scenario could be correct... But I may just be grasping at straws because I'm desperate like that.

"I guess it can't hurt... But we have to go now," the Capitol citizen says, and ushers me to the roof. A hovercraft is waiting, and we both board it.

My stylist dozes off during the ride, but now that I'm awake, I can't stop worrying about the arena. It feels like I've been in the hovercraft for several hours, yet the ride is still over far too soon for my liking. I'd happily stay in the hovercraft with my loudly snoring, mostly obnoxious stylist for the rest of my life, if it meant I could avoid going into the arena at all.

"You're the only one who's ever going to use this room, Cecil," my stylist remarks, speaking for the first time since we left the Capitol. I'm just surprised that he actually knows what my name is. I can't remember his. "It will be open for people to visit, once the Games are over," he adds.

Is that supposed to be some kind of demented attempt at small talk? What am I supposed to say to that? 'I'm glad you people in the Capitol will get a kick from seeing the last place twenty-three kids visited before going to their death in the arena'? So I say nothing, and examine the uniform that I've just finished changing into instead.

The fabric of this year's arena uniform is lightweight, in dull shades of gray. I recognize the fabric as a heat-insulating one. It wouldn't be good for extremely cold temperatures, but as long as it isn't colder than freezing, I think it would do a decent job at keeping a person warm. The pants have several pockets, zippered or velcro'd, and are dark gray. We are also given a strong leather belt. The shirt is a slightly lighter gray, with long sleeves. Over it, there is a hooded sweater with a large pouch in the front, the same color of the shirt. The boots are black, soft leather, and also designed for warmth in cool temperatures.

"Well, it looks like this year won't be too cold," my stylist observes helpfully.

"Yeah," I agree. Last year's was this snow-covered mountain, and lots of tributes froze to death, even with the insulated jackets that they were given. At least I know that most arenas aren't too similar from one year to the next; that would get boring, after all. Still, I'm not looking forward to being cold either.

"...Good luck," my stylist offers, as we wait for the glass tube to descend and take me to my death. It sounds like he feels like he should say it, but doesn't actually mean it.

"Thanks," I say, dryly, and he has the grace to look somewhat guilty. The tube's descent saves him from having to say anything though.

The first impression of the arena that I get is this: gray.

The sky is overcast, thick gray clouds obscuring the sun. It could be daytime, it could be a particularly bright night. The twilight-like pallor of the arena offers no hints about the time, even though I know it can only be midmorning, at the latest.

A forbidding gray mountain, which a quick glance reveals to appear traitorous and unpromising, rises to my right and curves subtly around us. I spare it only a quick glance, deciding at that moment that the mountain will offer to protection.

At the mountain's base, there is a flat plain about three hundred metres across, where the Cornucopia and we tributes are located. The supplies and the bright golden Cornucopia itself are the only sign of color to be seen.

On my left, at the edge of the plain, there is a dead forest. The trees are bleached white, their twisted branches bare and about as unpromising and ominous as the mountain.

A brisk wind that chills me immediately blows from my right, coming down from the mountain. The ground is a dirty-looking gray mixture of dirt and dust, cracked from lack of moisture. For a moment I panic, thinking that there will be no water in this arena – I mean, there's nothing else in this arena, so why bother adding water? Tributes going mad from thirst are always fun to watch... But then I notice that there is a small stream that flows down the mountain and into the forest, slightly to the left of the Cornucopia.

Yeah, basically this place seems like a dead wasteland.

At least our stylish uniforms will help us blend in. Thankfully my hair is a dark brown, which wouldn't stand out too much in this arena. Blonds like the pair from District One, or redheads like Helice, would be pretty easy to spot. I pull my hood up, to cover my hair and to try and keep warm; the wind really is cold, and it's only been a few seconds.

"Ladies and gentlemen – let the forty-eighth Hunger Games begin!" Claudius Templesmith booms.

Sixty seconds before I can step off this plate. I can see a package of jerky several feet away, and a green backpack a bit beyond it. A quick glance to my side reveals two younger, smaller tributes, but there is a Career – Sureal – about three tributes to my left, between me and the forest. He'll be going for the Cornucopia though.

I'll grab those supplies, then run for the forest. Anyone trying to climb that mountain would be in plain sight, totally exposed. Their clothes might help them blend in, but it still wouldn't be a risk I'd want to take. It does look like there are some caves farther up the mountainside, but I wouldn't want to risk trying to reach them.

The gong sounds. I lunge for the backpack and the food, literally snatching them out of the hands of one of the younger tributes, but there's no time for me to feel regret. I'm already spinning around and bolting for the forest, my supplies clutched to my chest. I have a feeling the food and whatever is in the backpack will be the only things to sustain me – it doesn't take a kid from District Seven or Eleven to tell me that this forest is dead.

I can only imagine what sorts of traps or mutts will be within as I plunge into the bone-white forest, but right now my priority is escaping the bloodbath that I can already hear going on behind me.

* * *

><p>AN: So, the arena is the reason for the title, 'Dead on Arrival'. Because the arena's dead too, get it? ... Yeah, it's kind of lame. Alternatively, you could take the title to refer to the fact that you already know how this story ends, thus all the other tributes are 'dead'. Clever, amirite? (Not really.)

As always, comments/suggestions/corrections/criticism are gratefully accepted. Seriously, even getting one review for a chapter makes me really happy...


	8. Bloodbath

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

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><p><em>Bloodbath<em>

**Luxy Mont, District One**

As soon as the gong sounds, I sprint for the Cornucopia. The eighteen year old boy from District Twelve was on the disc beside mine, and for a moment we keep pace. I spot a knife lying on the ground ahead, which would be useful for taking him out if he doesn't back off.

He does, though, snatching up a backpack and another knife, before turning and running for the mountain. I did manage to notice in that short time that the boy (man, really) didn't have the same terrified look that all other tributes from Twelve seem to have. He seemed... determined. Nervous, but not overly so – he seemed confident.

Very strange, for someone from Twelve.

I reach the Cornucopia and grab a belt of knives, pulling it over my shoulder. A glance confirms that most of the other Careers have reached the golden horn and armed themselves as well.

I don't immediately see Sureal, but as I'm looking around for him I see the girl from District 8 – Jean, or something – grabbing a backpack. I already let one tribute get away with supplies; it won't happen again.

A knife is already in my hand. The girl foolishly knelt down to grab the bag, so she's mostly remaining still. The moment the knife leaves my hand, she looks up. The fear in her eyes condenses into panic, and she leaps to her feet. Rather than burying itself in her eye, the knife glances off her upper arm.

It doesn't look like a terribly deep wound, but Jean gives a shriek of pain and fear anyway. Other tributes are so _weak_.

I immediately run after her. My next knife sinks into her thigh, and her leg gives out. Jean is screaming now, sobbing with pain and fear and looking pathetically desperate. She's asking me for _mercy_? I roll my eyes – a habit I picked up from Sureal, to be honest – and slit her throat.

I resume my survey of the plain. About twenty metres away, Helice and a boy are fighting over a backpack. More target practice. Surely participating in the Hunger Games won't be this easy. They're both distracted by the backpack, so they don't notice me running up. As I get near, Helice kicks the boy away from her – towards me.

The movement is routine, habit – I stab him in the heart, and turn for Helice.

Killing isn't unlike the practicing I put in with Sureal. His mother was an 'instructor' – she specialized in fighting with knives, and that's how I met Sureal. At first he was shy and didn't really like me – I think he was jealous of me, or annoyed anyway. He always was better with knives, though; courtesy of living fulltime with his mother, I guess. So I don't know why he didn't really like me.

But we trained together for years, and eventually he warmed up to me. I had to take the first step, and it took a bit of prodding to get him to agree to go out with me, but it was worth it. He seemed so upset when I volunteered, but I can't stand the thought of him dying in the arena. Not that I think he's weak, because he's stronger than me, but it will be good to have someone to watch his back.

I would never betray him. I love him, and he loves me. I would gladly die for Sureal.

Helice is still scrambling to escape.

"Luxy," a familiar says. It's Sureal, of course. He sounds... off. Frustrated. Sometimes when he's had a bad day in training, he gets like that.

"Sureal!" I smile and turn to him. He definitely looks frustrated, but from what..?

* * *

><p><strong>Helice Etern, District Five<strong>

The boy from Eight beside me – he's seventeen or eighteen, I'm sure – grabs the supplies that _I_ had my eyes on and runs for the forest. That was also my strategy, but if I don't get any supplies at all from the Cornucopia, I know that I'm dead.

I'm dead anyway, so I figure I might as well take a chance to get the better supplies closer to the Cornucopia – I might get lucky and escape the bloodbath unnoticed. Sureal has already reached the Cornucopia by the time I make that decision, and Luxy soon joins him. It looks like the other Careers have all gotten weapons and are now rounding on the tributes desperately scrabbling for supplies.

Twenty-four people aren't a large group, and I know some of the other tributes must have already fled the area, but the space around the Cornucopia is in chaos. It doesn't seem possible, but somehow it is.

I spot a decent-sized black backpack, not too big for someone of my size to carry, yet still large enough to potentially hold some good supplies. I lunge for it, and briefly get into a tug-of-war with the boy from Three. I finally kick him in the groin, hard, and he staggers back, gasping.

I fall back as well, off-balance after he lets go. Luxy appears before me suddenly, a bloodied pair of knives in her hands. She stabs the boy in the chest – probably the heart, since his face goes blank a moment later, but I don't really know my anatomy.

I scramble back, blindly trying to escape my soon-to-be murderer. All the cold words from my interview have fled my mind as I try to get away. Maybe if some other, stronger tribute catches her attention I can escape! The other Careers seem to be out of sight...

Sureal looms behind Luxy. Now they've both seen me – I'm doomed for sure. He catches her shoulder, spinning her around so she's standing in profile to me.

"Luxy," he says, but his voice sounds strange, different from it was in training, though I can't quite put my finger on _what_ has changed, exactly. I just know that, while Luxy may have gotten the higher training score, Sureal is the one I should be more afraid of.

"Sureal!" she beams, her lips turning up into that adoring smile she always seems to be wearing when he's around.

Sureal's expression is cold, a sharp contrast to the doting, fond smirk that he wore during training._ Run, stupid,_ I want to shout at her. I can't even follow my own advice though, sitting transfixed as I watch Sureal and Luxy.

On the other side of the Cornucopia I can hear the sound of fighting, although the din has died down considerably. I look to the side, and I can just see the girl from District Two brutally beheading the girl from Six.

I shouldn't have looked away. I feel a sharp pain in my chest. Luxy (or is it Sureal? It doesn't seem to matter now) must have thrown a knife...

* * *

><p><strong>Winno Plow, District Eleven<strong>

In some of the past Games I've seen, tributes from Seven and Eleven, whose industry is largely related to trees, have found refuge in forests of the arenas. Of course, this doesn't seem to be possible in the Games that I'm unlucky enough to be participating in.

_At least it's not a frozen wasteland,_ I try to tell myself, pulling my hood more tightly around my face. The dead, twisted trees seem to be mocking me. _It's just a _regular_ wasteland._

The trees are all good for climbing, but their lack of leaves means that hiding in them will be impossible. And none of them are particularly tall either, maybe... thirty feet? And given the long-dead look of them, I'd wager the branches won't be all that sturdy either. There are small knotholes at random intervals on every tree's trunk – maybe the work of a woodpecker?

Not that I'm in any condition to climb, anyway. I managed to grab a loaf of bread – one measly loaf of bread – from the Cornucopia before I ran off into the forest, but paid dearly for it. The beautiful girl from One saw me, but she was too far away to do anything about it. Or so I thought – she never threw knives that well during training. I can barely run now, my leg hurts so much. I yanked the knife out as soon as I was out of sight, but that only seemed to make the wound bleed even more. I'm leaving a blood trail behind me, but I'm too cold and tired to care.

It's so _cold_ – District Eleven has a more temperate climate, that's what they teach us in school. It never snows. That must be why I'm shivering uncontrollably – I'm not dying, I just need to stop and bind my wound, and it will be fine. I'll be fine...

I've been away from the Cornucopia for maybe twenty minutes when the cannons go off – nine shots. There are fifteen tributes left. I wonder who died. Maybe my District partner. He was strong, from long hours working in the fields, but he was also a coward.

I stop my limping jog suddenly. Water. I should know, from working just as long as him, that hydration is essential. The only source of water I spotted was the stream, which I think is to my left, somewhere. Or is it? I freeze, panic seizing my limbs again. I don't want my leg to become infected. Dying a slow death from blood poisoning and infection – I've watched it happen, in past Games and I don't want that to become my fate.

I pause to tear a strip off my shirt, leaving the sweater intact. I tie it as well as I can around my leg, the shaking of my hands making the task much more difficult than it should be. Once that's done (not very _well_, but if I can just survive and show that I'm a good prospect, I'm sure I'll get some sponsors...) I head off at an angle from my original path, moving towards the stream and away from the Cornucopia at the same time.

I don't know how long it takes me to reach the stream, because the sky stays the same dim gray that it was when I first entered the arena. In the fields, you can use the sun to gauge the time of day, but I don't even have that small source of familiarity in this dead world. Finally, after what feels like hours of passing by the same dead, holey, twisted trees, I get to the stream. The trees in this area are just as dead as anywhere, so I guess it's lack of sunlight that killed them, not drought like the parched and cracked ground would suggest.

I unwrap the bloody material from my wound and dunk it in the water. Of course, the stream is frigid. I barely notice though, because my hands are already so cold. I rinse the cloth out as best as I can, then retie it around my thigh. This task accomplished, I drink as much as I can. I don't have any water-purifying tablets, but as far as I know, when there's only one source of water in an arena, like what seems to be the case here, it is never poisoned. The Gamemakers only do that when they have several different sources.

I'm so tired. I know that I won't be able to get far without collapsing. At least if I climb a tree, other tributes will hopefully be unable to reach me. I limp away from the stream, because I know other tributes will be in search of water too, and choose a tree at random once I deem myself to be a suitable distance away.

Somehow, I manage to climb about twenty feet off the ground, before I decide that I'm too tired to climb any higher, and that the branches probably won't be able to support me either. I press as close to the trunk as I can, then eat two pieces of bread. I need to keep my strength up, if I'm going to survive. And there's no point in conserving the bread if I'm going to die – no, I won't think like that. I'm going to live, I'll be fine.

The anthem plays, marking the end of the day. As far as I can tell, the pallor of the sky hasn't changed at all. I guess the only indication of time passing will be the anthem's playing in the morning and in the evening.

I stare up at the gray sky, my eyes widening when I see the first face projected upon it: Luxy, the beautiful Career from District One. Her face lingers for a few moments, then gets replaced by the face of the boy from Three; then Helice, from Five – I only remember her because of her daring interview; the thirteen year old girl from Six is next; and the boy from Seven; the girl from Eight; both tributes from Nine; then my partner from Eleven; and finally, the girl from Twelve.

There are still five Careers left in the Games, but I feel hope anyway. If Luxy died already, maybe I really do have a chance at winning. I may only be fourteen, but if I survive long enough, I can outlast all the others. I think I'm the youngest left – no, there's still Shear, from District Ten. She's only twelve. But other than us, the rest of the tributes are all at least fifteen years old. The average age of the Careers is seventeen...

It's no good dwelling on thoughts like that. I need to stay calm, and focused. A particularly strong gust of wind sends my tree swaying slightly, the branches crackling together. I just sit here, shivering. Tomorrow, I'll go looking for more food. There must be _something_ alive out here. Maybe I can catch one of those elusive woodpeckers...

* * *

><p>AN: Aaand, that was the bloodbath. The next chapter will also be day one, from Lyme's point of view.

As always, comments/suggestions/corrections/criticism are gratefully accepted. ;)


	9. Day o1

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

It's my birthday so I figured I'd update... Does that even make sense?

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><p><em>Day o1<em>

**Lyme Rook, District Two**

I'm not the fastest runner, but I reach the Cornucopia only a second or two after Wavy. My fingers curl around the hilt of a sword – slightly different than what I'm used to, both lighter and shorter – and immediately advance on the tribute nearest to me. Compared to the girls that I killed qualifying for the Hunger Games, killing the untrained tributes of the other Districts is almost depressingly easy.

In training, the instructors taught us from a young age that the tributes from other Districts were trash. It doesn't take a genius to realize that this is wrong, a lie, but I can understand what they were trying to do. They wanted to ensure that when the time came, we wouldn't hesitate to kill our opponents, even if they were defenceless.

I suppose it worked though, because in a twisted way, I'm thinking that the boy from Nine deserves to die, for being stupid enough to think that he could challenge the dominance of the Careers. I run him through, grimacing slightly when his too-warm blood flows from my blade onto my hand, and then I shove him off my sword. He coughs blood and falls. Then a tiny girl from Six appears before me. I almost let her go, but by the time I realize who she is, my arm is already moving. Her head falls to the ground seconds before her body follows.

Just like that, it seems to be over. When I look for my next opponent, I only see Cliff nearby, rifling through a backpack.

Creston and Wavy are at the mouth of the Cornucopia. Sureal comes around the Cornucopia – alone.

"Where's Luxy?" I ask, quickly glancing around the open plain for her.

"She's dead," Sureal answers quietly. "I couldn't– the girl from Five, she was so _fast_– I could only watch." He gazes down at his hands, and the bloody knife clutched in his left. "I killed her, but it was too late."

I don't feel any remorse, of course. I don't feel anything, actually. So, Luxy is dead. That means the odds are tilted that much more in my direction.

"Good," Cliff says, callously. I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything less from him. He strides over to the Cornucopia to examine our supplies, and I follow, wanting to obtain a sword more like the kind I am used to. "You gonna get over it, or do I have to kill you too, pretty boy?" he demands, when Sureal makes no move to join our efforts.

"N-no. What do you want me to do?" Sureal asks, hurrying over to us.

I heft a sword that looks almost identical to the one I used to practice with in training. This one is much more to my liking. I sheathe it, then tie it onto my belt. I keep the short sword though, just in case. There aren't that many weapons in the Cornucopia this year.

"We should gather the supplies from the outskirts, so any scavengers won't be able to get them," I suggest, referring to the strategy sometimes employed by the wilier tributes. They wait until after the bloodbath, then sneak up to gather the supplies furthest away from the Cornucopia while the Careers are preoccupied. "Put them around the Cornucopia, then retreat to let the hovercrafts pick up the bodies."

Right after I say that, the cannons begin going off. One, two, three... I count ten cannon shots in all. That's about average for a bloodbath. What makes this number strange is that a Career died – usually Careers only fall to planned ambushes by desperate 'regular' tributes... or fellow Careers.

"It's a good plan," Wavy remarks, and Creston nods. A majority being thus reached, we all do like I suggested.

I manoeuvre my way around the Cornucopia, looking for Luxy's body. Her formerly luscious blonde hair is stained red with her own blood, but it's still highly visible in this gray landscape. As I collect supplies near her, I see that her throat is slit. The girl from Five is lying nearby, a stab wound through her chest.

The girl from Five is maybe five foot two; Luxy is only an inch or two shorter than Sureal, so at the least she would be five foot seven. It seems to me that it would be very difficult – impossible, even – for Helice to have killed Luxy in that manner.

I frown, but put it from my mind to examine later. Cliff is yelling for us to hurry up, and there's no point in creating unnecessary conflict amongst the Alliance so early in the Games. After taking a belt off of one of the dead tributes – it's not like they'll be needing it – I tie my short sword to it, then hang it diagonally across my back.

I carry my armful of supplies – packages of dried meat, a few loaves of bread, some random pieces of plastic, among other things – back to the Cornucopia, and dump them onto the pile that the others have made. It's surprising how many supplies there were around the Cornucopia, and I'm sure at least some of the tributes who escaped the bloodbath made off with other supplies.

The five of us retreat to the mountain side of the plain. I glance up at it, but I don't see any tributes. I'm pretty sure I saw a few of them running in that direction, though. Well, there are a few caves that they could be hiding in, or they could be blended in very well against the mountainside. It's not like we could go after them right now anyway, even if I did spot someone.

"We should go after them right now," Cliff says, following my gaze. It's like he can read my thoughts, then blurts out the exact opposite of what I'm thinking. Irritating.

"What about the supplies?" Sureal questions, stepping back when Cliff glares at him.

"Doesn't matter to me," Creston puts in. He's sharing a package of dried fruit with Wavy. I don't know how they're eating so calmly, I have no appetite after the bloodbath.

Somehow this translates into everyone looking at _me_ for the decision. "We should spend a little time going over the supplies – there might be something useful in there. Rock-climbing equipment, you never know," I say carefully. I don't really want to go hunting at this point, and the audience's thirst for blood is surely quenched after the bloodbath, so there's no reason to. On the other hand, I don't want to disagree with Cliff. "Distribute some supplies, we should each get a backpack, in case something happens. That shouldn't take too long, and then we can go hunting. When we come back, we can organize the supplies then?"

Cliff grunts his assent, much to my (private) relief. The hovercrafts are done collecting the corpses by this point, so we return to the Cornucopia.

"How many rats do you think ran into the forest?" Cliff asks, as we're going through the supplies. Crates and bags of food are being stacked to one side of the Cornucopia, for further inventory later. We're just trying to see what extra equipment might be in the Cornucopia this year.

"Rats? You mean the other tributes?" Sureal asks, opening the lid of a small crate. "Oh, there's some night goggles in here."

"Of course," Cliff snaps, then stalks over to see. Sureal steps away, turning to another unopened box nearby.

"I saw three or four go up the mountain," Wavy says, pausing to watch Cliff. Hoarding of the best supplies isn't exactly an uncommon practice among Careers, after all.

"Most probably went into the forest," I add.

"There's only three pairs," Cliff announces, holding them up.

"One for each District," Creston states, though he is still working at surveying our supplies.

"That pretty boy doesn't deserve a pair. Two for me and Lyme, one for District Four," Cliff counters.

Creston stills, looking at Cliff. Sureal shifts uneasily, caught between the two other males.

"Do they even work in this light? It's not really dark enough," I put in. "We can wait and see if it gets dark at night, and share them then."

"It's ok, Lyme, you can have my pair," Sureal mutters, sending me an unhappy look.

Creston snatches a pair from Cliff and puts them on. "She's right, they don't work right now," he says, sounding annoyed as he pulls them off. I notice that he puts them aside though, near the pack that he and Wavy have been contributing to.

"Sureal found them, he should get a pair," I say, trying to temper my partner's impulsiveness. It's not good if he alienates the others now, especially when I'll be implicated simply by association.

Cliff scowls. "Fine." He shoves a pair at Sureal, then stomps off to look at a different part of the Cornucopia.

Sureal sidles up next to me. "Thanks, Lyme, but I already took a pair," he confides, subtly handing me the pair that Cliff had given him moments before. He angles his body so that the other Careers don't see the exchange, and gives me a shy smile, which I hesitantly return. I tuck the goggles into the pocket of my pants.

"We're even now," I say quietly, not wanting him to get the wrong idea. He might be good-looking, but I volunteered for the Hunger Games so that I could _win_ – there's no point in getting attached.

Sureal looks faintly disappointed, but nods. More loudly, he says, "I think we're almost done, right?"

"Just about," I say, and it sounds so false and contrived, but the others don't seem to notice.

"We should leave someone behind to guard the supplies," Wavy remarks.

That brings up the question of who to leave, exactly. This Alliance seems tenuous enough.

"I'll stay behind," Sureal volunteers.

"Hell no. You're the weakest one, if any of the rats banded together, they could easily take you," Cliff asserts.

"Well, we can't leave the supplies unguarded either," Creston says, shrugging.

"Then Wavy and Sureal can stay behind, since they volunteered," Cliff points out.

Creston's gaze flicks from me, to Cliff. Just because we're clearly not as close as he and Wavy are, doesn't mean we won't take the opportunity to double-team him, is what I imagine him to be thinking.

"Are we going to go or not? There's still fourteen other tributes between one of us and victory," I point out, highlighting the large number of tributes left in an effort to remind both of the boys that it would be stupid to destroy the Alliance already. Not that I think Cliff would do that, but he's a bit too single-minded if you ask me.

"I'm sure between the two of us, Sureal and I can protect the Cornucopia for a few hours," Wavy agrees. "And we can always yell if something happens."

"Right. Let's go then," Creston says, zipping up his black backpack and slinging it over his shoulders.

"After you," Cliff retorts, flinging an arm out dramatically. I roll my eyes.

And realize that I didn't have the foresight to pack a bag for myself. Even Cliff has one. _Stupid,_ I berate myself, looking around for a backpack or something else suitable.

Sureal hands me the gray one that he had been filling. "Here. I can pack another one, Lyme." He smiles at me again, and I can't tell if it's sincere or not.

"Thanks," I mutter, looking away. I look inside, catching a glimpse of a small med kit, a package of dried meat, a bottle of water and a coil of rope. There could be other supplies inside, but I don't take the time to look as I hastily shove my goggles in and close it up, not wanting to draw more attention to myself than I already have. I sling it over my shoulders. It takes a bit of adjusting to make it sit comfortably over my short sword, but I manage it.

"Ready, woman?" Cliff asks maliciously, glaring at Sureal.

"Shut up, Cliff," I snap, tired of his attitude already. My annoyance may have something to do with my embarrassment though.

"Hurry up, ladies," Creston calls, having already reached the foot of the mountain. There are several paths leading up the side, but he has chosen the one closest to the Cornucopia.

Cliff snarls and jogs after him, with me following suit.

We hunt in silence. The caves are pretty much pitch black, which is where I think the goggles could really come in handy. I don't mention this though; I'm the one among us that isn't supposed to have a pair, so it's not like I could test my theory out even if I did point this out.

We bypass the lower caves, thinking that any tributes would have gone higher up, to the more inaccessible ones. Cliff leads, with Creston a few paces behind him, and to the side. I follow a few steps behind him, on Cliff's other side. There's not a lot of trust lost between the three of us – you'd think we'd be more secure, since we're the highest scoring tributes left in the Games, but that's clearly not the case.

"What time do you think it is?" Creston asks, a few hours into our fruitless hunt.

"I have no idea. Late afternoon?" I'm slightly out of breath, though the mountain's slope is rather gentle, and there are rough paths cut into the rock. It certainly isn't sharp enough to merit any climbing gear. It reminds me of a really steep path. We're sitting on a cliff that juts out over the plain, maybe a quarter of the way up the mountain.

Cliff stands at one end of the cliff, looking down. Creston, I notice, is looking paler than before, under his tan. _Afraid of heights?_ I wonder.

"Anything interesting out there?" I ask.

Cliff shrugs. "Nope. Looks like Wavy and the pretty boy have done some more organizing at the Cornucopia though. I guess the weak ones are good for something."

I see Creston stiffen, turning his head to glare at my oblivious partner.

"Well, they're getting more done than we have," I point out.

"Hn. You're right. It just doesn't seem right, we've searched three caves so far and none of them had any rats in them!" he mutters.

"It's just the first day, calm down," I say. "Why don't we go back for now – the other tributes will come out of hiding when they get hungry enough."

Creston looks relieved for a moment, but it quickly passes. "We need to set up a watch schedule," is all he says, already starting back down the mountain.

"I hope they gathered some firewood," I remark, pulling my hood more tightly around myself. The wind isn't as strong up here, but it seems colder too.

"There's no shortage of dry branches," Creston agrees, though he sounds indifferent about the prospects of a warm firm to huddle around.

It takes about an hour to walk back down, since we don't bother searching any of the caves. Sure enough, Sureal and Wavy have a fire going when we get back. We have a meal consisting of the food that can spoil, bread and fruit and some dried meat.

The anthem plays, and the death recap is broadcast onto the unchanging, ever-gray sky. As night falls, the temperature gets even colder.

"What I wouldn't give for a pair of decent gloves," Sureal grumbles, sitting next to me. He already has his sleeping bag out, and is huddled within for warmth. Cliff sneered at him for it, but for once Sureal didn't back down. We're all ranged around the fire, between the stream and the Cornucopia.

_Thunk_. A moment later, a silver parachute lands on the dry ground in front of him. Sureal snatches it up and tears the package open. A pair of dark blue gloves await him, reminiscent of the color of his eyes. He pulls them on eagerly.

Four other parachutes follow, one for each of the other Careers. We all get gloves, though I notice that ours are only plain gray, like the rest of the uniform. If that doesn't send a message about the crowd favourite, I don't know what does.

"Me and pretty boy will take first watch," Cliff announces. Sureal doesn't protest.

"Wavy, do you want to take the next?" I offer. She shrugs and nods.

"I'll take the last shift, then," Creston says.

"Not alone," Cliff insists. I can't stop my sigh from escaping.

"Well, it's either you or Sureal taking the next one," Wavy states.

"Pretty boy can do it, since he's already getting some sleep," Cliff snaps. I glance to my right, and sure enough he is, his body curled subtly around me, though there is still a respectable distance between the two of us. I guess that's why he didn't say anything to Cliff's announcement.

I have no idea what to make of him.

"I want to put a few more supplies in my pack," I say, rising. The fire and new gloves have warmed me considerably, and I don't want to be seen encouraging or approving of Sureal's strange behaviour.

Cliff stands as well, lifting a foot to kick the sleeping boy.

"You might as well let him sleep, since you decided he's taking two shifts," Wavy says, her tone sharper than usual. I ignore the proceedings and walk over to the Cornucopia.

There is a spare belt of knives set aside, along with a pair of spears and two axes. Cliff uses a sword, like me, and Wavy and Sureal use knives. Creston is deadly with a spear. Since spears and axes are the easiest weapons to pick up and use, I would imagine this is why there's a surplus. As for the knives... I imagine they were intended for Luxy.  
>She doesn't need them now, though, and someone has already taken two from the belt, so I help myself to two more, and slide them into my belt, opposite my sword. There's a steady supply of water, and no shortage of purifying tablets either, so I grab two more spare water bottles, a pack of tablets, and a book of matches. They will barely add any weight to my pack, and they surely can't hurt to have.<p>

We have ten heat-reflecting sleeping bags too. Only five will be used, which means there's five extras set aside as well. They're relatively lightweight, and I'm tempted to add one to my pack, but that might be taken the wrong way. There's no need to prepare for a split of the Career Alliance yet, anyway.

I wonder how other tributes are faring. I doubt any of them got away with anything really good, like a sleeping bag, and the smart ones wouldn't dare to light a fire either, even if there is not as much of a risk of being seen since it's relatively light out.

I return to my place around the fire. Someone has placed my sleeping bag right next to Sureal's sleeping form, much to my annoyance.

"Funny, guys," I mutter, kicking it a few feet away.

Cliff sneers at me. I ignore him and sit back down.

"Well," Wavy says, "if there's nothing else to do, I think I'll go to sleep."

"What if someone lights a fire?" Cliff demands.

"Then wake us up," Creston responds, flatly.

Cliff glares, but really, doesn't he have any common sense?

"Sureal, wake up. It's your turn to take watch," I say, prodding him with the tip of my foot.

He jerks awake, hand fumbling for the knives at his belt as he tries to jump to his feet. That fails kind of spectacularly because he's currently wrapped in a sleeping bag, but it's good for a few laughs. He joins in sheepishly, once he manages to extricate himself.

"I'm taking first watch?" he asks blearily, trying to stifle a yawn.

"With me," Cliff says, smiling maliciously. There is entirely too much tooth visible, but I guess that's the point. Sureal doesn't manage to suppress his wince as Cliff adds, "So don't even think about falling back asleep, pretty boy."

"You're taking the last shift with me too," Creston puts in. "Wavy and Lyme are doing the second shift."

"Wait, how will we know when our shift is over?" I ask suddenly, realizing that there's no way to tell the passage of time, since the sky never changes from the same flat shade of gray. I guess the anthem would be a good indication, but only for telling when it was day or night time.

"Oh yeah, we found some watches while you were on the mountain," Sureal remembers. "There were only four though." He quickly passes one to me. I strap it onto my wrist. Unsurprisingly, it's gray. I am a little surprised that it's digital, though. The Gamemakers stopped supplying electronics in the Games after a tribute from Three won a few years ago by electrocuting the Careers. His name was Beetee, or something.

Then again, I doubt there's much you can do with a digital watch, even if you are an underfed genius from District Three.

"Where's mine?" Cliff demands.

"Sureal and I got one each, and decided to give the other two to the people we wanted. I gave mine to Creston," Wavy says coolly.

Surprisingly, Cliff doesn't press the issue. "It's just a stupid watch. Lyme's the one who wanted one anyway," he mutters under his breath.

"Good night," I say, firmly, and slide into my sleeping bag. I don't zip it up fully though, remembering what happened to Sureal when he did the same. I use my backpack as a rather uncomfortable pillow. It takes a while to fall asleep on the hard ground, with a lumpy pillow, especially after a few days of sleeping in the Capitol.

Who knew it took so little time to go soft and get used to comfort?

* * *

><p>AN: So, day one. ... There's not much else for me to say, for once.

As always, comments/suggestions/corrections/criticism are gratefully accepted. ;)


	10. Day o2

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><em>Day o2<em>

**Cecil Cross, District Eight**

The day before, I had spent several hours alternating between walking and jogging along the path of the stream, confirming what I had already suspected: this forest was dead. There was no sign of plant life, nor did I see or hear any animals. I stopped around late afternoon – at least, I think it was late afternoon – and walked into the trees at a right angle from the stream, until I couldn't see it anymore.

I'd lucked out at the Cornucopia, too: my backpack had some water-purifying tablets, a knife with a blade as long as my forearm, a heat-reflecting blanket (not quite as good as a sleeping bag, but it was better than nothing), two water bottles and some salted crackers. My food supplies weren't exactly abundant, but I had a blanket, a weapon, and as long as the stream was around, water.

I'd noticed that the trees were hollow, after hesitantly peeking into one of the weird knothole things that riddled all the trees, and from there it was pretty easy to break into a suitably-sized tree to spend the night in. And by break in, I really mean, carefully saw a rectangle away from the trunk and get inside.

The anthem played while I was hacking away with my knife – a hatchet would've been nice – and I saw that Luxy had died in the bloodbath. Jean was dead too, along with eight other tributes.

I felt bad, for thinking that it would have been easy to kill her, and even going so far as to fantasize about doing the deed myself, when she had been particularly annoying during training. Even if she was a complete bitch, she didn't deserve to die. At least her death would have been quick, in the bloodbath.

I settled myself as comfortably as I could into the tree, with my blanket wrapped around myself for warmth, as the wind still got in through those stupid knotholes in the trees. I even managed to get the panel of wood to cover up the hole that I made. I ate a few crackers and one strip of meat, then somehow managed to fall asleep.

A scream wakes me up the next morning.

I jump to my feet, managing to slam my face into the tree's side. Oh, right. I thought it would be a good idea to sleep inside of a dead tree. Groaning, I rub my sore nose. At least it's not even bleeding... it just hurts.

Someone screams again, and though the words are pretty unintelligible, I think I can make out 'get them off!'

It doesn't sound promising. Still, it doesn't sound like Careers have gotten her – the screams are definitely feminine – so... That begs the question, what _has_ gotten her?

I have that uncomfortable pins and needles feeling in my legs, distracting me from the problem at hand. I'm starting to think that deciding to spend the night in this stupid tree was not the best idea I've ever had.

Is it some sort of mutt? I peer out of a conveniently located knothole, but I can't see anything. The girl's screams are rather close by, though, and I'm sure other people can hear them. If there are any Careers in the area...

I make up my mind. If it's a mutt, it must be near too, which means it could find me. Since I have no idea what kind of mutt it is, I should leave now, while I have the chance. I quickly shove my blanket into the backpack, pull it onto my back and grip my knife tightly. My legs have mostly recovered now, and a quick glance around, using various knotholes, don't reveal anyone or anything else around.

The screams have mostly tapered off to whimpers now, which don't make me feel any safer, and those soft noises are far more difficult to tune out. I slide the panel of wood away from the hole, and hesitantly step out, looking around cautiously before I replace the panel as best as I can.

I turn back around – and freeze. A little girl is watching me from behind a tree about ten metres away.

I may or may not have let out a girlish scream.

"You have a knife – you can k-kill her," the girl says, faltering at the last, her gaze falling uncertainly to the ground.

"Or I could kill you," I say, though I sound far too shocked for the threat to be taken seriously. Also the girlish scream may have damaged my manly points.

"After you kill her," the girl says, her gaze steadily returning to mine. I remember her interview – she stammered nervously throughout. She has light eyes, that much I can make out. And her hair is cut short, hanging around her chin, just like –

I forcefully stop that thought from being completed. Equating your competition with your eleven year old sister is never a good strategy in the Hunger Games, because what are you going to do when it turns out that you have to kill her?

"Are you just going to stand there staring, or are you going to kill her?" the girl demands. "Careers could come, or-"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," I mutter, walking over. She skirts around the tree, watching me warily. "Lead the way, little girl."

She frowns at that. "My name is Shear," she says, sounding faintly indignant.

I just arch an eyebrow, like, _and your point is?_

Shear scowls and trots off, tossing glances over her shoulder every few seconds. Whether to check to see if I'm following, or to check if I'm going to stab her in the back, I'm not sure.

The girl – er, the other one, the one who has been reduced to weak whimpering – is lying on the ground about a hundred metres to the... west? East? Anyway, she's between me and the stream.

Her leg is broken, the bone sticking out rather gruesomely from the skin, but that's not what I notice immediately. There are black..._ things_ crawling all over her body, but they are swarming around the puncture wound on her thigh.

I make a noise of disgust, automatically taking a step back. "Are those-?"

"Ants. Well, mutts that look like ants," Shear murmurs, her gaze remaining upon the other girl. "No ants I know eat..." she trails off, biting her lip.

"Please!" the girl gasps, and I notice with a kind of sick fascination that though the ants are crawling all over her, they aren't on her face. In fact, they just seem to be going for her open wounds. "Please just– please, please–"

I stride over with more confidence than I feel. There are ants all over the ground around her, but they don't seem to take notice of me at all, even when I inevitably squish some beneath my feet. I manage to ignore the utter grossness of this by focussing on the task at hand.

I crouch down and place the blade lengthwise across her neck. She opens her mouth to say more, but I slash her throat before she can utter anything. The look in her eyes is too close to gratitude for me to stomach. I stagger to my feet, away from her, and then fall to my knees, retching, as a cannon fires, marking the girl's death.

"Cecil. Cecil, get up," Shear says urgently, shaking my shoulder. I'm faintly surprised that she hasn't attacked me or something. Then again, she's all of twelve, maybe an inch over five feet, whereas I'm nearing six feet.

I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, swallowing down the bile burning my throat. "Stupid," I mutter, turning away from the body. "I shouldn't have thrown up. What a waste."

"Come _on,_" Shear insists, tugging at my arm. I notice that she has a knife tucked in her belt.

"You do have a weapon!" I say accusingly, pointing at it.

"It was- Hers. I don't remember her name," Shear mumbles. "I-I'll put it back, if you think I shouldn't have taken it..."

I flinch, glancing at the dead girl's body automatically. I can't remember her name either.

"Like you said, we should go," I say, turning away. I'm not quite sure when 'Cecil' and 'Shear' became 'we', but I guess traumatizing experiences like killing a girl three years younger than you while another girl five years younger than you watched is a bonding experience.

Who knew?

Shear breathes a sigh of relief and falls into step behind me. "Do you think we should cross the stream, or stay on this side?" she asks, standing just close enough that the back of my hand brushes the material of her sweater as we walk.

"...Probably cross. Or at least, go deeper into the forest," I agree.

"There isn't as much space on the other side," Shear remarks, slipping her hand into mine like it's the most natural thing and leading me into the forest. "I walked for a while, and reached a wall. It's like a continuation of the mountain, I think..."

I frown, but that makes sense. There has to be boundaries in the arena. "How'd you know my name?" I ask.

"I remembered you, from the i-interviews," Shear explains, shuddering. Probably in remembrance of the televised event. "Mine was so horrible... But yours was great. Everyone laughed at your jokes..." She gazes up at me admiringly. Her eyes are blue, not unlike my sister's.

"Ah, I guess," I agree, shrugging. She's still holding my hand, which isn't exactly unfamiliar for me, since my sister has the habit of doing so, but it's a little weird all the same, because, you know, she's not my sister and we're participants in the _Hunger Games_.

"So... Allies?" Shear offers quietly, her hand tightening around mine briefly.

I frown slightly. Objectively, I know that allying myself with a tiny girl from Ten will do me no favours in the sponsors' eyes... But let's face it, I've never been good at listening to my 'common sense'.

"Of course." I smile at her, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

She smiles back, and even though I know that one of us will have to die for the other to win – or, more likely, we'll both die so some Career can win – I feel like I've made the right decision.

"There's no wind," I realize, suddenly.

Shear nods. "I know... It died down sometime last night."

"Huh," I say intelligently. "So, do you know what time it is? I mean, the anthem hasn't played yet..."

"Yes it has," Shear interrupts, looking at me like I'm crazy.

"It did?"

She nods. "I was watching... the other girl. She was too high for me to reach, but I could see there were black things crawling all over her. She was asleep though, until the anthem woke her."

"... Guess I slept through it," I mutter, embarrassed. I don't want to dwell on the girl I killed, even if it was out of mercy.

"Maybe we should jog for a bit," Shear suggests after a few moments of silence.

"And hope we don't run into any more mutts," I mutter.

"Well, the ants at least only seemed to be going for her blood..."

"So, don't get hurt," I summarize. "Shouldn't be too hard, in a nice place like this."

Shear giggles. "Don't worry; I'll protect you, Cecil."

I glance down at her. "Isn't that my line..?" I can't help grinning though.

"Less talk, more jogging," she orders, pulling away to do just that.

I shake my head, but do the same, overtaking her so that I'm a few paces ahead. I check back often, to make sure that I'm not going too fast.

As it turns out, I run out of stamina before Shear does. If that isn't a blow to my masculine pride, I don't know what is. I've been outrun by a twelve year old girl.

We stop when we come across a tree that has fallen, leaning against another to form a triangle. I'm pretty out of breath at this point, and immediately sit down on the fallen trunk. Shear seems to be fine, though she is breathing a bit more heavily.

"I guess you don't get a lot of exercise in the textile factories," she suggests, grinning shyly. I guess working in the livestock District is a place where you'd get a lot of exercise. It makes sense, now that I think of it.

"You'd be right," I grumble, taking a sip from one of my water bottles. I notice the way her eyes linger on it, and hold it out. "Thirsty?"

She wrinkles her nose. "You drank out of that one, Cecil," she says, disgusted.

I roll my eyes. That is _exactly_ what my sister would have said in this situation. Though I can't say that I wasn't the same, at that age. I grew out of it though, while Shear... "That's what you're worried about?" I mutter, digging in my backpack for the other bottle that I have. She accepts that one eagerly.

"Did you get any supplies from the Cornucopia?" I ask.

Shear looks away, carefully recapping the bottle before handing it back to me. "The only thing near me was a sheet of plastic. I didn't think it would be useful, and I couldn't risk going in further..."

"It's not an accusation. I know that you couldn't have risked getting closer to the Cornucopia," I assure her, though I'm thinking it would have been nice if she had managed to get some supplies.

"What did you get?" Shear asks, perching on the tree next to me.

I shrug and hand her the backpack to look through. She rifles through it briefly.

"A heat-reflecting blanket..." she sighs, pulling the item in question out. "And _food_..." Her stomach growls then, as if on cue. I suppress a slight smile while she blushes in embarrassment.

"Eat something," I suggest.

"We have to keep moving," Shear points out. "If I eat and then run some more, I'll get a cramp."

"All right, eat a cracker. It's so little food, it shouldn't hurt, but it'll tide you over until we stop for a longer break," I insist, and she doesn't protest after that.

We continue on, after that. A breeze seems to be picking up, brisk enough that I pull my hood up again, as does Shear.

"Do you think there's any food, other than what was at the Cornucopia?" Shear asks, her voice so quiet that I almost don't hear it over the crackling of the branches in the wind.

I frown thoughtfully. "There must be something," I say. "I mean, this forest isn't going to provide for us... obviously."

"But these are the _Hunger_ Games," the girl whispers uncertainly.

"I'm sure there will be something," I insist, more loudly. For some inexplicable reason, it makes sense that the truth of my words is proportionate to their volume.

"Shh!" Shear hisses, halting suddenly. I freeze, my hand immediately going to the knife at my belt. I notice that she does the same, but instead of looking around wildly like me, she's staring at the ground.

Footprints.

"Are they fresh?" I ask, having absolutely no outdoor knowledge beyond what I've gleaned from the mandatory annual broadcast of the Hunger Games, and it's not like the Careers who track people down are going to explain their methods.

"Don't know," Shear says shortly. "But they go deeper into the forest..."

"It looks like the right print is much deeper... If it wasn't for that, you'd barely be able to see them," I remark, probably obviously. I glance behind, but the footprints behind Shear and I are almost invisible. Admittedly, Careers would be looking out specifically for a trail, but there's nothing we can do about it...

"Probably limping," Shear decides. She turns to me. "Should we follow?"

I hesitate, weighing the options. On one hand, killing off the competition would make us more popular with the sponsors. On the other, the thought of killing someone in cold blood makes me feel sick. Finishing someone off in an act of mercy was almost too much for me to take.

"Let's just avoid them," I say. "If they're limping, they're probably injured. And there's only one set of prints, so they must be alone. We could easily finish them off, if they attacked us." I hope I sound confident when I say this. I think I succeed, because Shear nods, appearing relieved.

"Time for jogging?" Shear suggests. "In case someone's tracking this trail." She doesn't need to clarify that 'someone' actually means 'Careers'.

"Right. I'll lead." We walk carefully past the footprints, not wanting to leave any obvious marks around the other tribute's trail, then jog when Shear deems us to be a safe distance away.

The rest of the day passes rather uneventfully. We stop around midday, or what Shear estimates it to be, anyway. We each eat half a strip of jerky and two crackers. At this rate, our supplies will run out in three days, if we continue to eat like this twice a day. I don't know if Shear realizes this, so I don't say anything about it. I notice that she's shivering, but there isn't much that I can do about that.

We continue on, eventually deciding to stop at another fallen tree after the anthem plays (only one tribute died, the girl that I killed this morning). This one is positioned almost exactly as the one we passed earlier, forming a triangle against another tree. With the two of us working, and my previous experience, it is much easier to cut a hole in the still-standing tree.

This tree is a little wider than yesterday's, and I'm able to sit down with my knees bent. Shear is so small that she can sit in the space that remains, if she leans against me. After a bit of fidgeting, we get the blanket wrapped around the two of us. It isn't comfortable, exactly, but it's certainly warm.

"I'll keep watch," I offer, peering out of another of those conveniently-placed knotholes.

"We can take turns," Shear insists. Given that the blanket is draped fully around her, with only the tip of her head exposed, I don't see how she could possibly keep watch, but I decide to humour her.

"Don't even think about not waking me up. I mean it," she says seriously. "If you're getting tired, tell me. I'm used to getting up early, to milk the cows."

"Yes ma'am," I mutter.

She punches me lightly in the stomach. "Good night, Cecil."

"'Night, Shear," I reply, patting her on the head like I would to my sister.

* * *

><p>AN: To be honest, I'm kind of losing my motivation to finish this story. I have an outline, but I don't really have any inspiration to actually flesh out the chapters. Well, there's two more chapters finished after this one, so that's something.

Feedback and whatnot is always appreciated.


	11. Day o4

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><em>Day o4<em>

**Sureal Lusion, District One**

The second and third days of the Games passed with little action. Someone started screaming from deeper with the forest when the anthem played on the morning of the second day, but before we could really get organized, the screaming stopped and a cannon went off not long after that. We decided that it must have been mutts that got to the girl.

We spent the rest of that day scouring the mountainside, again. Creston stayed behind to watch the supplies that time, while I kept up my efforts to 'woo' Lyme, so to speak. She was surprisingly resistant to my efforts, which I found rather annoying. I'd given her all this stuff, but she remained as cool towards me as she was to everyone else. At least I could tell I was annoying Cliff. Small victories, and all that.

The third day passed in the same manner. I was getting fed up with all this mountain climbing. Obviously, whatever tributes there were that were hiding up here weren't going to be found. It would be better to hunt in the forest, where the majority of the tributes had headed after leaving the Cornucopia. I hesitantly put the thought forward that night, and Creston immediately agreed. Lyme and Wavy also thought it was a good idea, and Cliff had no choice but to go along with it after that.

We had established a routine, of sorts, too. Three shifts of watch each night; hunting from the morning anthem until the anthem at night, with a break in between at about one for lunch.

I've also gotten the chance to get to know my fellow Careers better. While Cliff seems to be the strongest of our little Alliance, his unbridled arrogant asshole tendencies have alienated him from the rest of the Alliance. Rather than dominating the group, he's actually been largely isolated, as I've stuck close to Lyme and the pair from District Four is as close as ever, leaving him without a close ally.

If anything, Lyme seems to be the unofficial 'leader' of the Careers. She's the one who reins Cliff in when he goes too far with his bullying of me (though she only steps in at those points, never before), and prevents him from pushing Creston too far. Wavy and Creston seem content to support her suggestions, and in return she does the same for them. She also seems good at making compromises, and is pretty fair.

As for me, Lyme seems to tolerate me, though she continues to ignore my attempts at becoming anything closer than 'wary allies'. Creston and Wavy remain together, and thus aloof from the other three of us. Cliff hates me, but that's about par for the course. I mean, the best insult he can come up with is 'pretty boy'. He's not stupid, but he's pretty close to it. Enough said.

And like I said, Creston and Wavy seem pretty content to stick together. There's not really much else to be told about them.

Which brings us to day four of the forty-eighth Hunger Games. I'm on the last shift of the watch, along with Wavy. I'm sitting in the mouth of the Cornucopia, wrapped in my sleeping bag, watching the mountain. Wavy is somewhere else, probably near the supplies, watching the forest. So far, we haven't hunted down any tributes since the beginning of the Games. I'm sure the audience must be getting bored by now, since the only death after the bloodbath happened two days ago.

If we don't do something about that, I know the Gamemakers will.

I glance down at my watch. It's 6:27; the anthem always plays at 6:30.

"Time to wake up the others," Wavy remarks, walking around the Cornucopia.

I nod and we go over to where Creston, Lyme and Cliff are sleeping around the fire. I kneel down beside Lyme and tap her on the shoulder. Her eyes open almost instantly, her brown gaze registering some small alarm, but she relaxes slightly when she only sees me.

I take this a sign that maybe she's starting to trust me. I give her a small smile. "It's almost time for the anthem to play," I say, then move away to stir up the fire. Lyme gets up to wake Cliff; she's the only one who can get away with it.

Sure enough, Panem's national anthem starts to play.

The five of us are ready to go, packs on our backs and breakfast already eaten, about fifteen minutes later. However, it's at this point that a problem arises.

It was supposed to be Cliff's turn to stay and guard the supplies, but predictably, he throws a fit like the irritating little boy he is at the prospect. I don't think I need to tell you that he was complaining all last night about giving up on hunting on the mountain. Now he wants to embrace it wholeheartedly? What a hypocritical dick.

The annoying bastard is making me seriously consider dropping my weak act. The satisfaction of slitting his throat and seeing the shocked (and I'd imagine, approving) expressions of the other Careers would be worth it. I'm just not sure how things would go from there – and there's still a bunch of other tributes left in the arena, so it's far too early.

I try to console myself with the thought that, eventually, the number of tributes will have dwindled and I will have the chance to shut Cliff up. With a knife to the jugular.

Anyway, Lyme volunteers to guard the supplies this time, even though she's already had her turn. I kind of tune out the stupid argument, focussing on the tree line instead. The trees all look the same, their perforated bark bleached white and dead. I think that it would be easy to get lost within the forest's depths... Or lose a certain annoying prick.

It's a tempting thought.

"Lyme, you already stayed behind," Wavy points out, actively disagreeing with Cliff for the first time. "It's Cliff's turn now."

"It's only fair," Creston agrees. "Everyone had their time keeping watch."

Cliff opens his mouth, no doubt to deliver some pearl of wisdom, when a shout drifts down from the mountainside. Everyone looks up instinctively, in time to see a small figure running down. They're too far away to make out any distinct features, but I think that it's a younger boy.

"You see?" Cliff sneers triumphantly, "I knew there were still rats up there!" He takes a step forward – but a rumble stops him.

"Rockslide?" Lyme mutters, but I'm standing close enough to hear her. I instinctively take a step back, though we're near the centre of the plain.

A terrified shriek can be heard from the lone tribute, as the ground literally falls out from beneath him. I'm frozen, watching as he manages to stay on top of the falling rocks and boulders for one, two, three long seconds – then he trips with a scream and I lose sight of him amidst the descending rubble.

Lyme grabs my upper arm, dragging me back. "The Cornucopia," she hisses, and I look at her blankly for a second before realizing what she means. Wavy and Creston have already retreated to the golden horn, standing cautiously near its mouth. If worse comes to worst, we can always climb it. Lyme and I run over to join them, while Cliff stays behind, snickering to himself.

Seriously, I know that I'm not exactly the sparkling example of a normal, well-adjusted young man, but there is something deeply wrong with that guy. I might enjoy watching someone I loathe die, but that kid didn't do anything to me.

_These are the Hunger Games,_ I tell myself sternly, watching as the first boulders reach the ground. _Mercy is a weakness that will be frowned upon by the audience._

The ground shakes as the bulk of the rocks smash onto the ground. Some roll towards us, their momentum carrying them rather close to Cliff, but none reach the four of us standing by the Cornucopia.

I wave a hand in front of my face, coughing slightly as I squint. A lot of dust has risen thanks to that rockslide.

I can hear the other Careers coughing as well, but Cliff actually seems to be laughing between coughs. See previous comment about his mental stability – and the lack thereof.

"Thought you could escape us, eh?" he says tauntingly. Lyme and I exchange confused glances before we realize: the tribute's cannon didn't go off. He's still alive.

"I'm sorry- Please, I'm sorry-" someone whimpers. It's definitely a boy. I think it must be the boy from District Ten, because all the other male tributes left are at least sixteen. This boy sounds like he hasn't hit puberty yet.

"Shut up!" A dull thud accompanies this outburst, and the boy gives a choked cry. Did Cliff kick him?

Lyme makes a noise of disgust and strides forward. I follow a moment later, as does the pair from Four.

Cliff is still taunting the boy.

I almost look away when I see the half-crushed features of the younger tribute. He's probably fourteen, at most. His right arm disappears under a large boulder, and only the left side of his blood-stained torso and head can be seen.

Gruesome, but what do you expect from the Hunger Games? The audience is probably eating Cliff's act up. As we watch, Cliff crushes the boy's fingers beneath his heel, dragging a scream from the already battered boy.

I see Wavy turn away out of the corner of my eye. Creston's face is unreadable, as it usually is, but his lips seem thinner than usual as he observes Cliff's actions. Lyme stands rigid beside me. It seems none of us are willing to step in though.

"Please- please," the boy gasps, his one intact eye gazing beseechingly up at the four of us. He's smart enough to realize that if mercy's to be had, it will come from one of us – but he's stupid for dismissing Cliff like that.

"Shut up!" Cliff shouts again, the tip of his boot slamming against the boy's head.

I can't believe the kid's still conscious. More than that, I can't believe I ever considered Suede's suggestion of torture. I guess it's one thing to sometimes see it happen on the Games from the safety of the television screen. Standing here, I can barely stomach watching Cliff kick this kid while he's down, much less imagine doing something similar myself. Killing someone cleanly, well, it's different than _this_.

"Cliff, that's enough," Lyme says shortly. I can see her hands curling into fists, then relaxing. A nervous tic, perhaps?

Cliff rounds on his District partner. "You're the one who thought we should stop checking the mountain!" he says accusingly.

Actually, it was my idea, but I'm not about to point that out. I watch Cliff in silence, glad to have an excuse to look away from the pitiful, whimpering boy in front of me.

"There's no telling if we would have gotten caught in that rockslide or not if we'd be on the mountain," Lyme says evenly, not backing down. "So, there was _one_ boy up there. Great. Now we can search the forest for the other _seven_."

For a second, I think Cliff's going to hit her. Then he whirls around, drawing the knife at his belt. The four other Careers tense instinctively, but he only crouches down beside the boy.

"Are you scared?" he sneers, holding the knife before the boy's terrified features. He slowly brings it down over the younger tribute's remaining eye.

Beside me, Lyme grabs one of the knives out of the belt I'm wearing over my shoulder. I flinch automatically, shying away. For one panicked moment I think that she's seen through me, and decided to take me out. Then the knife flies from her fingers, slicing through Cliff's shirt and barely scratching his upper arm, before it sinks into the boy's chest. His heart, to be exact.

_Boom!_

Interesting. I didn't know she could throw a knife that well. Maybe it was luck... But maybe not.

Cliff leaps to his feet, furious. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demands, immediately focussing his gaze on Lyme.

"We're wasting daylight," I say, before I can stop to think about the implications of my words. I'm not supposed to contradict him so openly, and by being the first to speak, it'll seem like I'm the one who killed the other tribute.

"There's no daylight, in case you haven't noticed, the light never changes at all!" Cliff yells, advancing on me. I guess I had that coming; compared to Lyme, I'm a soft target. I shouldn't have drawn attention to myself.

Lyme steps halfway in front of me. "Sureal's right, Cliff. We're wasting time." Well, at least she seems to be protecting me, not that I need it, but it's nice to see that my efforts are paying off to some extent.

"That doesn't give him the right to-!"

The right. I don't have the right to steal his kills? This guy is a real piece of work. Never mind the philosophical discussion that could arise concerning our right to kill another child, or the Capitol's right to force us to such lengths... I could go on, but why bother.

"I'm the one who killed the boy," Lyme interrupts coolly. "Now shut up and let's go. I'm sure some tributes came to see what the commotion was." She gestures to the forest behind us.

Cliff glares, then stomps off. Actually stomps, I kid you not. I don't even...

"I guess we don't need someone to guard the supplies," Creston remarks.

"Shut up!" Cliff shouts over his shoulder. I'm surprised he's not ignoring us completely. I'd prefer that, actually. His endless yells of 'shut up' are already old.

"You'd better not complain if we come back and find someone stole our supplies," Wavy says, her clear voice carrying across the plain. Silence greets her words, and Cliff doesn't stop his angry march into the trees. Thank the Capitol.

The four of us exchange a glance, as if to say, _what can you do with a retard like that?_

The obvious answer would be _kill him_, but the number of other tributes is still pretty high.

I'm sure everyone's thinking that. We're already down Luxy (no thanks to me, not that anyone's the wiser) and it hasn't affected our performance so far. Would losing Cliff really have such an impact? There's seven other tributes left; twelve total, in just four days.

"We should get going," Lyme says, and jogs off after Cliff. The rest of us follow suit.

Sadly, we don't find any sign of other tributes for the rest of the day, apart from some very old footprints. They're half-obscured by the dust that's been blown around by the wind, so we don't even bother trying to follow them for more than fifteen minutes.

Around two, after we've been combing the forest fruitlessly for hours, Cliff speaks again.

"This is useless," he remarks bluntly.

I roll my eyes behind his back. Hasn't he watched past Games? The life of a typical Career is filled with hours (days, even) of fruitless tracking, usually followed by a brutal death at the hands of a former ally. Did he think the other tributes would just fall into our laps? Most Games take at least two weeks to finish, barring some unreasonably harsh environment for the arena that serves to eliminate most of the competition.

"It's the same as hunting on the mountain was," Lyme replies. She still sounds annoyed.

"We could set some traps by the stream?" I offer, because I can diffuse the tension too. Especially since Lyme doesn't seem to keen to do so herself. "They have to get water, and there's no other water supply that we've seen."

"I brought rope," Creston agrees.

Cliff grunts and turns in the direction of the stream. Crisis momentarily averted. I can't decide if I'm glad or not. The four of us could easily take Cliff, strongest Career or not.

I fall back a few steps, to walk beside Creston and Wavy. Creston shoots me a look, and I smile timidly back, raising my hands in a disarming fashion. Wavy scoffs under her breath.

"So... I hope you know how to set traps," I say quietly, chuckling in what I hope is a nervous fashion. "Because I skipped the rope station during training..."

"We've got it covered," Wavy tells me, amused.

I breathe a sigh of relief, not feigned this time. District Four tributes usually know how to set up traps, courtesy of all that knotting that comes with being the fishing District, but you never know. "Thankfully," I murmur, and Wavy laughs briefly.

Creston looks annoyed that I'm amusing Wavy, and Cliff glares at me over his shoulder, so I take the hint and hurry back to Lyme's side.

We reach the stream about an hour later. Like most of the things in the arena, the rope we found at the Cornucopia is light gray. Not completely invisible, but if a person wasn't looking for it, their eyes would probably skip right over it in this dreary light.

Cliff is silent, staring at the wall of stone that I can just see rising over the bare treetops. All arenas have boundaries, though some are less obvious than others. It seems that this year, the borders are obvious. The mountain slopes down around the forest, forming fifteen foot walls around what I would guess to be the whole arena. I'm not about to waste my time checking. Unlike the rest of the mountain, the walls are completely smooth, attesting to the fact that this whole environment has been completely fabricated. I imagine there is a forcefield extending beyond the stone walls, but again I don't feel the need to check.

I watch Wavy and Creston rig up three traps within about a hundred metres of each other. I'm not certain of the specifics, but it seems like anyone who set foot within the circle of the rope would end up hanging from said foot about ten feet in the air. I make a mental note to be wary of rope traps.

"Done yet?" Cliff demands after about half an hour.

"No," Creston answers, unperturbed by Cliff's impatience.

"Well, when?"

"We'll finish when we finish. It would go faster if we had help."

Cliff scowls and walks away, deeper into the forest.

I'm just praying that whatever mutts got the girl from Eleven will get Cliff too.

About five minutes later, if that, Creston says, "Done."

I don't even bother trying not to laugh. Lyme and Wavy join in, and even Creston cracks a smile.

"We'd better get back. It's almost four," Wavy remarks once we've all calmed down. "Check on the supplies, and all that."

No one argues with that, and I almost think that we're going to leave without Cliff, but Lyme turns in the direction her partner went and calls, "We're going back to the Cornucopia!"

No response, unsurprisingly. I almost delude myself into thinking that Cliff is gone for good, but he appears out of the forest before we reach the plain. I didn't even hear him approaching – apparently he does have some subtlety.

There's a knife in my hand, and I hear the rasp of metal as Wavy and Lyme draw their weapons as well, before we realize it's just Cliff. He's either fearless or stupid – probably a combination of both, I guess – because he just walks back to the front of our little group like nothing happens. I think about how easy it would be to put a knife between his shoulder blades.

Then again, I'm always thinking about the quickest way to kill my current allies, so I guess that's not really something worth mentioning at this point.

The supplies are untouched, as far as we can tell, which seems to vindicate Cliff. What an idiot.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully; the boy from Ten's face is the only one projected into the sky when the anthem plays that evening.

It's decided I get to take last watch, again. I actually don't mind it, since I get to sleep until then. Lyme gets the short end of the stick, so to speak, tonight. She gets second and third watch. At least I get the chance to continue my attempts at making her warm up to me.

I curl up in my sleeping bag, beside Lyme as always. Irritatingly, she continues to keep me at a distance. Well, there's still time. It's only the fourth day, after all.

* * *

><p>AN: Sorry for not posting yesterday; I was busy.

Feedback of any sort is, as always, appreciated.


	12. Day o5

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><em>Day o5<em>

**Lyme Rook, District Two**

The second watch passes in silence. Creston isn't much of a talker, and to be honest, I'm not either.

The metal of the Cornucopia is cold to the touch, but I'm sitting inside my sleeping bag, so I don't really notice. I can hear the soft crunch of Creston's steps as he paces back and forth on the other side of the golden horn. He's watching the forest, and I'm keeping an eye on the mountain.

Since the quality of light never really changes, I can study the slopes the same as I can during the day. The caves that used to dot the mountainside have all been covered up by yesterday's rockslide. Strangely, the paths are still intact, and for the most part uncovered. I suppose this is the Gamemakers' doing, though how they could control a rockslide is beyond me. The only caves that remain are the ones that were above the rockslide.

At least that narrows down likely hiding spots for any tributes that might be on the mountain – assuming there are any left. Not that I'll be suggesting we go back to hunting there any time soon – I'm still angry at Cliff, though the feeling has subsided a little in the intervening hours.

It's day five, now. The number of competitors has been cut in half. I try to remember who is still in the running... The five Careers, of course; and the two tributes that got 6's in training – Cecil Cross, whom I remember from his entertaining interview, and the eighteen year old male from District Twelve. I didn't get much of an impression from him, and I can't remember his face now, much less his name.

That's seven... There are five other tributes that I'm forgetting. The only other tribute that comes to mind is the twelve year old from Ten; she must be good at hiding, or something. I doubt she would have come away with much from the Cornucopia.

My watch beeps softly, and I glance at my wrist. It's time for the third watch, then. Sure enough, I hear Creston coming around the side of the Cornucopia, and we exchange brief nods before he goes to wake up Sureal.

The latter joins me a few minutes later, settling his sleeping bag beside me in the mouth of the Cornucopia. His continued presence at my side is still an annoyance, but I am also coming to find it familiar – which is far more troubling.

He yawns once, running a hand through his shaggy blond hair, before turning to me. "So, why did you volunteer, Lyme?" he asks, his voice quiet so as not to wake the others (specifically Cliff).

I shrug, staring up at the dark mountain. "It was this or becoming a Peacekeeper," I answer truthfully. "Or a miner." I grimace slightly. Being a Peacekeeper wouldn't be that terrible, but the life of a miner has very few highlights. I've seen enough miners in town to know that.

"So I volunteered," I finish, not wanting the silence to return. Usually I don't mind it, but right now I'm close to falling asleep, which would not be the smart thing to do in this situation.

Sureal nods. "Not for your family, or..?"

"No; I'm an orphan," I reply.

"Oh, sorry-"

"Don't be," I interrupt. "I'm not. I never knew my parents, so it's not like I miss them. So why did you volunteer, Sureal?" I ask, changing the subject.

He shrugs too. "Fame. Money. You know." He glances sidelong at me, a slight smirk playing across his features. He really is attractive. I look back at the mountain, forcing that thought away.

"Yeah," I agree.

And then I add, because I'm curious to see his reaction, "But not love?"

Predictably, Sureal flinches, the smirk disappearing from his face. He looks away. "I didn't want Luxy to volunteer," he murmurs, drawing his legs up to his chest like a child.

It's tempting to push him further, but I've never considered myself to be sadistic. I don't apologize, but I let it go. "I'm going to take a walk," I tell him. He makes a noise of assent and pulls my sleeping bag over his as soon as I get up. I send him a look that clearly says, _I'm not amused_. He hunches in upon himself, shivering for effect.

Before he can see my small smile, I turn and walk away. Sureal is too comfortable around me. _I'm_ too comfortable around him, for that matter. I should be able to remain on friendly terms with him, like I am with Creston and Wavy, without becoming so attached.

The cool air clears my head, allowing me to think more clearly. Sureal isn't stupid; I know that firsthand. He knows that there can only be one winner in the Hunger Games – it's everyone for themselves. Furthermore, he was supposedly in love with his District partner, Luxy, long before he entered the arena. If he was so enamoured of her, why the abrupt shift in attitude after her death? Arguably, he's not stupid enough to make himself vulnerable by mourning for her for too long – but that doesn't mean he has to rebound with me either.

The possibility that Sureal might genuinely like me enters my mind, but I dismiss it just as quickly. Developing any bonds closer than those of a casual acquaintance within the Hunger Games is just stupid, and as I've already argued (to myself), Sureal isn't stupid. I like to think that I'm not, either.

The walk clears my head somewhat, the cold, still air waking me up and chasing any foolish thoughts from my mind. I return to Sureal's side – a place where I've found myself the vast majority of the Games, so far, if I'm honest with myself – and he holds the two sleeping bags open, the offer obvious.

He sighs and pouts the slightest bit when I simply pull my sleeping bag off of his and sit down beside him instead. "I get this feeling that you don't really like me, Lyme," he remarks, glancing up at me through his shaggy blond bangs.

"I like you fine," I reply curtly. There's a beat or two of silence, and then we're both chuckling at the obvious discrepancy between my words and my tone of voice.

"So, what about your family?" I ask, once our soft laughter has subsided.

Sureal shrugs. "We're a perfect little family," he responds, and I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or serious. "My dad owns a small diamond-making factory, and my mom is an instructor. I don't have any brothers or sisters."

I nod, digesting the information. If his family owns a factory – even if it's small like Sureal claims – they must be upper-middle class. 'Instructor' sounds kind of vague though. Maybe she trains District One's Careers? I know that One and Four don't have the same rigid system that my District does. I'd always assumed their tributes were trained on a more individual basis. At any rate, if she trains Careers, Sureal couldn't exactly come out and say that. Rules can stay intact so long as no one acknowledges the giant elephant in the room – that is, the fact that some tributes are trained, despite the practice being illegal.

"That sounds like a good life," I comment, though the words sound lame to my ears. I've never been good at carrying on a conversation, which may or may not have been evident.

"Yeah. I never went hungry, always had nice things," Sureal replies, flippantly.

"You would've inherited the factory?" I ask, wondering why he wanted to potentially toss those things away, just for a chance to win the Hunger Games.

The blond nods.

I'm a little annoyed about learning this, to be honest. At least my reasons were actually, well, a little bit reasonable. The life of a miner is terrible, the life of a Peacekeeper isn't bad but I doubt it would be anything worth mentioning. Those were my only options, beyond volunteering and getting out of the system entirely.

Sureal, on the other hand, could have inherited his father's company, or probably have gone on to do something else within the District, if his parents were so well off. I know that some people's reasons for volunteering for the Hunger Games were selfish (even mine could be taken that way, really) yet I can't help but feel as if Sureal had committed some grave offense by volunteering.

"Hm." My reply is non-committal, but Sureal seems to catch on to my darker mood and we carry on the rest of the watch in silence.

We wake everyone a few minutes before the anthem plays, and eat a light breakfast. We finish off the loaves of bread, because they were getting stale and old; the same can be said for the fresh fruit, so we each take a few to eat during the day during our hunt.

It's Wavy's turn to take watch today. Unlike Cliff she is actually mature enough to handle her responsibilities, so she doesn't complain when the four of us leave. Cliff is in the lead, as usual, with Sureal and me walking together in the middle, and Creston bringing up the rear.

"We're checking the river first," Cliff announces, casting a glare at us, like he's expecting someone to disagree. Why would we? The idea actually makes sense, instead of his usual stupid plans.

"Sounds good, Cliff," Sureal says nervously, when it becomes obvious that neither Creston nor myself intend to reply.

My District partner nods and starts off upstream. One thing I will say in Cliff's favour: despite his tall and muscular frame, he moves almost silently through the dead forest. Then again, there's no denying that he's a talented fighter – he would never have qualified to volunteer back in Two if he wasn't – so I guess it's not all that surprising. It just seems to be at odds with that loud, obnoxious personality of his.

To be honest, I wasn't really expecting our – rather, District Four's – traps to catch any tributes, given the lack of camouflage material within this arena, and the first two that we come across are empty. When we reach the third, however, it's clear that someone had been caught in it. The gray-ish rope sways in the rising wind, cut. Someone was caught and cut themselves down, I assume. Probably they fell on whatever they used to saw through the rope with, since there is a visible blood trail leading to the stream. Whoever it was that got caught was smart enough to get in the stream to escape, though. That way, any shed blood would be washed away by the water.

Finally, a challenge.

"They got away," Cliff snarls angrily, turning on Creston.

"They can't have stayed in the stream forever," Sureal interjects as Creston opens his mouth to respond (probably angrily, judging by the furrow of his brows). "They'd have to leave it eventually, right? We just have to follow the stream until we find their trail again. They were bleeding pretty heavily."

"One of us can go back to camp on the other side of the stream, in case they were dumb enough to go that way," I add. "The other three can continue upstream, until we find their trail."

"I'll go back," Creston says.

"You do that," Cliff snaps back.

"Okay, then me and Lyme will take the other side," Sureal says, grabbing my hand. He hurries to cross the stream – shallow but cold, and now my boots and socks are wet _and_ cold – but I don't really notice any of this, too shocked by the contact.

Creston follows us, and immediately begins the walk back to camp. I notice that Cliff seems to be staring at our joined hands.

I jerk my hand out of Sureal's grasp, ignoring the surprised and hurt look he sends my way. "We'd better get going," I say briskly, even though it is still rather early in the day, and start walking.

Cliff just scoffs and jogs ahead. I'm not sure whether to be glad about his absence or not. I don't know if I want to be left alone with Sureal at that moment, even if it means not having Cliff around.

Much as I hate to admit it, I say to Sureal, "We should probably jog as well... Just in case, you know." In case of what, exactly, I'm a bit too distracted to think of, but if we're jogging it will make talking a bit more difficult and I definitely do not want to talk with Sureal right now.

Plus, the flush that I can feel on my cheeks can be passed off as an effect of the running...

_This is ridiculous_, I try to tell myself, it's not like I'm a twelve year old with a crush. I'm a Career, and I need to get my priorities straight. Namely, the fact that only one person can walk out of this arena alive, and I intend for that to be me.

It's not long – maybe half an hour – before Cliff gives a shout from somewhere up ahead. Sureal and I exchange a glance and run towards him. It turns out he ended up crossing the stream and is now on our side, crouching to examine the ground.

"I thought we were checking this side," I say, trying to sound neutral. I'm more than a little annoyed that he presumed to do our task – but that's not important right now.

Cliff shrugs. "You were taking too long."

Sureal grabs my upper arm before I can do something I regret – like run up and kick my District partner in the face – and I quickly jerk out of his grasp.

"Whatever. What did you find?" I demand quickly, crouching down beside him.

Cliff grins at me and holds up a blood-stained scrap of cloth – probably ripped from the shirt of a tribute, judging by the look of it. "Rat must've had some brains," he remarks. "They bandaged their injury." He gives Sureal a pointed look, like, _guess your plan wasn't so good, pretty boy_.

Sureal doesn't rise to the bait though. "I can still see wet footprints – the person must have passed through here recently."

Sure enough, I see drying footprints in the dust. It's kind of pathetic that I didn't notice them in the first place.

"Spread out. I'll follow the trail, you two come in from the sides," Cliff decides, and I don't feel like disagreeing with him. Maybe getting the chance to kill someone will calm him down a little. Even the prospect of tracking down and catching the injured tribute seems to have made him slightly more tolerable.

Or maybe I'm just in a better mood. I don't really want to dwell on that line of thought, though.

I hope that he won't insist upon dragging out the kill, like he did with the boy yesterday. I'll admit that there is something satisfying about killing an opponent, but toying with a defenceless child is something entirely different.

Sureal taps me on the shoulder. "Coming, Lyme?" he asks, and I see that Cliff has already run off in pursuit of the injured tribute. I mentally slap myself for the distraction and nod, shrugging off his hand as I rise to my feet. I'm a few inches taller than Sureal, actually.

"I'll take the right," I say, drawing my sword before I set off in that direction. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sureal follow suit, but to the left. I'm kind of regretting taking two apples – they'll be all bruised after this running around, and it's annoying to have them thumping into my back from my pack.

Then I realize that I'm worried about an apple when, more likely than not, a child is about to be killed.

Shoving all those thoughts away, I focus on scanning the trees for any sign of a gray-clad tribute. One thing I will say in the Capitol's defence (sort of) is that this year the uniforms were good for camouflage. For any tributes who need to rely on hiding – basically all of them except us Careers – it will be an unexpected blessing.

For those of us who actually have a chance of winning out of skill rather than luck, it's just an enormous annoyance.

To my left, and a little ahead of me, I hear Sureal yell, followed by a frightened shriek from the same direction.

So, the injured tribute is a girl. I change directions, not quite sprinting, and through the trees I see Sureal chasing a girl of about sixteen. 'Chasing' isn't really the right word, given her unsteady gait (courtesy of the wound on her thigh) – I think herding would probably be a better description. I'm surprised he hasn't already put a knife in her; I know that Sureal has decent aim, and it's not like the girl is moving quickly or anything. For that matter, he doesn't really seem to be trying to catch her either.

Frightened brown eyes meet mine, and the girl gives a sob, changing course to run deeper into the forest – but then Cliff steps out of the trees. The girl spins around, but it's obvious that she is surrounded.

"Please," she begs, tears leaking out of her eyes as she trembles before us. "Please, don't-"

"Don't what?" Cliff interrupts, sneering. "Kill you?"

The girl swallows shakily, tucking her hands into the pocket of her sweater. I wonder if she even realizes what she is doing as she rocks back and forth. "I d-don't want to die..."

"Pathetic," Cliff says, disgusted. He stalks forward, drawn sword held in one hand. "These are the Hunger Games. Obviously you're going to die." I'm a little unnerved that he seems totally calm, matter of fact even – a stark contrast to the vicious triumph he was displaying a few minutes ago.

The girl turns toward me. "Please, Lyme-" Her injured leg gives out, and she tumbles to the ground.

She knows who I am? I don't even know what District she's from, much less her name. Then again, I guess you'd want to know the names of the people who are probably going to end up killing you in the arena for use in just these situations...

Cliff springs forward, intending to run her through as she lies prone on the ground. How heroic. To my surprise, she twists around, causing Cliff to stab his sword into the ground instead of through her chest, as he seemed to be aiming.

Her hand comes out of her pocket, holding a blood-stained knife.

We all forgot that she had managed to cut the rope from the trap.

Cliff is distracted with trying to dislodge his sword, which seems to be stuck fast in the ground – and he doesn't notice that the girl is about to stab him in the chest.

I'm frozen in place, the sword clutched in my hand forgotten. It's not like I could do anything anyway – if I threw my sword, I'd be just as likely to hit Cliff as I would be to hit the girl. As much as I may despise him, I don't think getting rid of him at this point would be a good thing.

Then again, it looks like he'll be dead soon anyway.

In my peripheral vision, I see Sureal moving. Cliff gives a grunt of triumph as he frees his sword, rearing back to strike again. The girl's knife narrowly misses him, and he gives a shout of surprise as he realizes what happened-

A knife comes whistling in from the side and buries itself in the girl's skull. Her cannon goes off almost immediately. Cliff and I both look at the male from District One, who has a smirk on his face.

"That was a close one," he remarks, calmly striding up to Cliff. He kneels and pulls out his knife with a strange squelching noise. Carelessly, the blond wipes the blood (and other things) off on her shirt, then returns the blade to its sheathe.

"What just happened?" Cliff asks, his usual demanding tone replaced with one of shock as his gaze travels from the blond to the knife still clutched in the dead girl's hand.

I guess this is proof that you aren't guaranteed a win just because you got a ten in training. This girl must have gotten a five or less in training, and if Sureal hadn't been here, Cliff would be dead. I'm feeling as shocked as Cliff looks, to be honest. I was just as cocky, thinking that the other tributes didn't stand a chance. The real advantage that we Careers have is our superior numbers...

Sureal shrugs, quickly going through the girl's pockets. "You're welcome," he says pointedly, and Cliff reflexively thanks him in response.

Then Cliff seems to realize that he just _thanked _the _pretty boy_. He hauls Sureal up by the collar, and I quickly step forward, ready to intervene.

Sureal returns Cliff's glare coolly, not seeming to be intimidated at all despite their obvious height and size difference. A few moments later, Cliff releases the blond and steps back.

"You're all right, pretty boy... Lusion," Cliff corrects himself, giving Sureal a brief nod.

Sureal gives Cliff a bashful smile. "Thanks." I think I detect a bit of sarcasm, but Cliff doesn't. "What's our next move?" the blond adds, falling back on his more submissive attitude.

A glance at my watch confirms that it's still before noon. We could return to the Cornucopia and rejoin Creston and Wavy, or carry on hunting for a bit longer.

"Let's just go back for today," Cliff says. He sounds a little shaken, but neither Sureal nor I comment on this. Who wouldn't be, when faced with their own mortality like that? From the way things were going, if Sureal hadn't intervened, I think Cliff would have died, or at the very least been seriously wounded before either he or myself managed to kill the girl.

I don't think that I would have made the same mistakes as him – going in for such a flashy kill just isn't my style, for one thing – but the girl's actions shocked me. Though the 'regular' tributes might not have any practical skills with a weapon, it doesn't take any skill to stab someone – if you go for the chest, odds are you'll end up piercing something vital. I'd been so thinking about how the other tributes had no chance that I'd forgotten they sometimes did manage to win, usually through a combination of luck and trickery, but who cares how you win? A victory is a victory.

Not to mention when the inevitable dissolution of the Career Alliance occurs, a lot of trickery and luck are involved as well.

Sureal pauses to pull an orange out of his pack, then calmly begins eating it as we walk back to the Cornucopia. I don't know what he's trying to prove, but Cliff (and me, for that matter, though I never really doubted) now know that he is a serious contender. Also, it would seem that his timidity towards Cliff's abrasive personality was an act, if his actions towards Cliff of a few minutes ago are any indication... And now he's just eating an orange, like nothing happened.

"Do you know who that girl was?" I ask, more in the interest of breaking the silence than actually learning the girl's identity.

Sureal carelessly tosses a piece of peel to the ground. "District Three. Don't remember her name." He pops a piece of the fruit into his mouth, then offers another to me.

"No thanks, I have my own," I say distractedly, pulling off my pack to rummage around for the apples I brought with me. As expected, they're bruised. But food is food, and I doubt we'll be getting anymore fresh fruit after our initial supplies run out. There's no point in wasting it now.

How did Sureal remember who she is? I didn't even feel any flicker of recognition when I saw her. She could have been a stranger I'd met on the street, not someone who went through three days of training with me, among the other activities leading up to the Games themselves.

Creston and Wavy are waiting at the Cornucopia when we return about an hour later. We kept an eye out for any new trails, and checked the traps when we passed, but there was no sign of any other tributes.

"You killed whoever got caught in the trap?" Wavy asks, so I assume that Creston has filled her in on what happened before we split up. She's looking at Cliff when she asks this, probably thinking that he would have been the one to kill the tribute.

"Sureal did," Cliff grunts, and doesn't offer any further information as he stalks past to our dwindling supply of food. Creston and Wavy exchange glances, then look to me and Sureal questioningly. I just shrug.

"Lucky throw," Sureal contributes, smiling.

Neither of the tributes from District Four looks particularly convinced, but they don't say anything else as we settle down to eat lunch.

"So are we going to go hunting again?" Creston asks towards the end of the meal.

"I'll stay and keep watch," Cliff offers, shocking us all into silence. He glares when he notices that everyone is staring at him. "What."

"That's fine. We should start at the other end of the plain, maybe," I suggest, because we have mostly been focussing on the side with the stream.

"Sounds good. Split up into two groups, within shouting distance?" Wavy adds, and the rest of us nod in agreement. Of course, the pairings are Wavy and Creston, then Sureal and me.

Nothing much happens, and I for one find the silence between myself and Sureal to be painfully obvious, but if the blond is unnerved by it he doesn't show it.

Much to my annoyance, we don't find any further tracks – there's no sign of any tributes at all, and as a result it seems like the afternoon drags on forever. I keep checking my watch, which probably doesn't help the time go by any faster, but refuse to break the heavy silence.

Maybe it's only heavy to me. Maybe I'm just looking too far into things.

Maybe I need to calm down and focus on the real goal: winning the Hunger Games.

I sigh. "I guess we should turn back now," I remark, glad that the day is almost over.

Sureal shrugs. "Sure." At the same time, Wavy and Creston walk up and tell us essentially the same thing. Guess all that training must have paid off, since we all seem to have the same instincts. Or it could just be a coincidence.

The camp is undisturbed when the four of us return, Cliff seated on the Cornucopia. He is staring up at the mountain. He's obsessed with that area of the arena, I swear. At least he doesn't bring up hunting on it again.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. I think I'm getting more used to the perpetual twilight... Or I'm coming to rely more and more on my digital watch to tell me what time it is. I can't imagine not having the thing, now, to be honest. I wonder how Cliff can stand it, not being able to tell anything about the passage of time beyond the rising and falling of the wind at the beginning and end of the day, and the playing of the anthem.

Whatever; it's not like his sanity (already tenuous, let's be frank) is my concern. At least his near-death experience seems to have calmed him down.

We decide upon the watch – surprisingly, Cliff volunteers to do two shifts.

He's acting very suspiciously. The other four of us eye him thoughtfully after this generous offer, wondering if he is planning to kill us all in our sleep. But then we (well, I do, anyway) come to the conclusion that another person will be on watch with him, and they would definitely raise the alarm if he tried something. While we do have to kill each other in the end, I think it's safe to say that we have more loyalty to each other than any of us feel for Cliff.

I fall asleep almost immediately after I lay down on my sleeping bag. I find it surprising that my body adapted to the uncomfortable ground so quickly, especially after the luxury of the Capitol's beds. But I guess, in the end, it's a matter of survival.

* * *

><p>AN: Feedback of any sort is, as always, much appreciated.


	13. Day o6

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><em>Day o6<em>

**Sureal Lusion, District One**

The next morning dawns... well, ok, it doesn't dawn because the same unchanging gray clouds remain fixed in the sky.

But moving past that. The next morning begins with our usual 'campfire'. We eat the rest of the fresh food (bread, fruit, vegetables, etc.) and discuss our plans for the day, who will stay behind on watch, where will we hunt, how will we hunt, exciting stuff like that.

On a side note: it'll be tough jerky (beef, I think), dried fruit (sweet, more of a snack than actual sustenance), salty crackers, indigestible protein bars and other equally delicious non-perishable food items on the menu from here on out. Maybe some bread here and there, I'm pretty sure it's one of the cheaper sponsor items. Non-Careers always seem to get it, anyway. Careers don't really need it, since they usually have all the supplies, but a little variety wouldn't be amiss.

I'm rambling, and definitely getting ahead of myself. Food's food; that's what I need to focus on. Once I win, I can gorge myself on all of the luxurious, delicious Capitol food that I want. And at least I won't be starving, like most of the other tributes.

"Whose turn is it to stay behind today?" Cliff asks, once we decide to stick to the forest for hunting again. It makes sense, considering our grand total of one kill (impressive for Careers in five days, isn't it) was made there.

"Mine," I say with reluctance. I won't lie, killing the girl from Three was... not enjoyable, per se, but exhilarating. I kind of lost my head there; I don't think I should have shown just how proficient with a knife I really am, but it's too late now. Cliff didn't even make much of an issue of it, which was a relief. But I don't want to spend a day sitting around the Cornucopia, guarding supplies – though I do recognize the necessity of it.

"We'll check in at noon, then come back at six. Does that sound good?" Cliff asks, rather than tells, us for once.

I shrug. "Yeah." Then I realize that, given my status as weakest Career, I should probably be a bit nervous about spending the day alone. "What if you guys don't check in? I mean, let's say that I wait fifteen minutes and no one shows up..."

"Assume we're tracking someone and don't have time?" Wavy suggests, rolling her eyes slightly.

"...Okay. And if someone comes I guess I'll fight them off. Or yell, or something like that."

"Right."

The day's schedule thus determined, my fellow Careers quickly cleaned up and set out, leaving me to pace the desolate plain all by my lonesome.

Can anyone say, _boring_?

The first day I only spent about half the day guarding the Cornucopia, and then I had Wavy for company. And we were occupied organizing supplies. Now, guarding our supplies alone? I'm bored out of my freaking mind.

I check our water supplies – purifying tablets and whatnot are still numerous, but I notice that the large jugs for water (impractical for carrying around, but useful to stay at a base, like the Cornucopia) are roughly three quarters empty.

So I take the empty ones to the stream (not a very long walk, sadly) and fill them up. While it is tempting to leave the water untreated, who knows what that might lead to in the long run. Besides, they'd probably know it was me, anyway. I drop a couple of purifying tablets in each one and lug them back to our pile of supplies.

Great. A glance at my watch confirms that task took about twenty minutes, all told.

Only about ten _hours_ remaining. Well, four if you look forward to someone checking in around noon. Which I don't.

I amuse myself with some stretches for another half an hour, then force myself to spend the next thirty minutes walking along the edges of the plain. The lower caves on the mountain have all been blocked by the rockslide, I notice; though the higher-up ones are still open.

To be honest, I wasn't paying _that_ much attention to the other tributes during the bloodbath: I was too busy with taking out Luxy and getting away with it (which I did, obviously). But I'm pretty sure I saw Thorne run that way; the tall, muscled tribute from Twelve is pretty remarkable, at least to me, so I noticed. I mean, how often do you see a guy who's doesn't look chronically underfed get reaped from District Twelve?

So... Where is he? We spent three days combing the mountainside, and found no sign of other tributes, much less Thorne. And the day after we decide to try the forest, a tribute just happens to appear on the mountainside?

It makes no sense. I'm sure we had gone that high (about midway up the mountain) in our hunts, so why hadn't we found the boy? The only possible place to hide is in the caves, right?

And I don't think it would be so easy to sneak from the forest to the mountain – the plain offers no cover whatsoever. Though our gray uniforms do blend into the landscape rather nicely...

Still. I wouldn't want to bet my luck on something as flimsy as hoping whoever's on guard duty wouldn't notice. Doesn't mean a desperate tribute wouldn't do the same, though, if they thought it would help them in the long run. Benefits outweighing the risks, and whatnot.

I half-heartedly pick through the remaining supplies, just to get a better idea of what sorts of items are left. I set aside some jerky and a package of salted crackers for myself, thinking that they probably won't be missed. As far as I know, the others aren't keeping _that _close an eye upon the supplies, so as long as I don't take more than one or two things, they won't notice.

And if I do happen to get noticed, I'll just bluff my way through. Not a big deal. I've been enough of a whiner to be able to get away with the "but I was _hungry_" excuse.

It's only ten in the morning. Two more hours until someone will come check in. If they're not too busy. I amuse myself with attempting to climb the Cornucopia – not as easy as it looks when you're wearing gloves and trying to find a purchase on slippery metal with the wind plucking at your clothes.

I get to the top and just sit there, gazing out at the plain.

I'm never going to buy anything gray ever again, when I get out of this damn arena.

Movement catches my eye – a tribute with brown hair is brazenly walking up to the Cornucopia.

... What the hell?

I'm so surprised that I let him get all the way to our pile of supplies. He probably would've grabbed some stuff too, if he hadn't looked up to the Cornucopia and seen me sitting there, staring at him in shock.

With a shout of surprise, he snatches up a knife and a package of jerky then turns and bolts for the forest. For all that he looks starved, he can run really fast.

I pull out a knife and throw it at his retreating back, but it just nicks his shoulder. Swearing to myself, I slide down the Cornucopia and run after him, shouting. Maybe the others will be close enough to catch him if they hear me.

I've been trained to run over long distances, and I haven't gone hungry at all these past six days (even if I haven't eaten as much as I'd have liked) but fear and desperation must give the kid strength because I lose him in the trees. The ground, parched and cracked, offers no hints as to where the boy has gone either.

Shit. What am I going to tell the others? There's no way I can live this down. One package of jerky and a knife missing are not a big deal, but the fact that he got all that way before I reacted, and also that he _got away_ afterward, is inexcusable.

Another thought occurs to me: What if he was just a decoy to lure me away from the supplies so his allies can steal more food?

Admittedly, it doesn't seem likely – most non-Careers don't think to make alliances – but I sprint back to the Cornucopia anyway. I mean, if he'd had allies, why wouldn't they ambush me or something? Still, it's only when I return to find the remaining supplies unmolested that I can relax even a little bit.

I pace back and forth in front of the supplies, casting suspicious glances at the mountain and the forest at regular intervals. This is ridiculous. I need to calm down and think about this semi-rationally.

First: Who was the tribute? Brown hair is rather common, I'm sure at least two thirds of the tributes this year had brown hair. He'd looked about sixteen or seventeen – but as far as I was aware, most of the competition left in the Games were that age, apart from the twelve year old girl from District Ten.

I crouch down and pull out a knife, to make a T-chart (my teachers at school loved them; I never really saw the point of making the stupid things, but the more you know, I guess) in the hard ground. There's column for Boys and the other for Girls, then I put 1 to 12 in each column.

Luxy was gone; the pairs from Three, Nine and Eleven were also dead. The boys from Seven and Ten and the girls from Five, Six, Eight and Twelve were all gone. I cross off each corresponding number on the chart. That leaves the boys from Five, Six and Twelve; and the girls from Seven and Ten. Not counting us Careers, of course.

The boy has to be from Five, Six or Twelve. He obviously wasn't Thorne, he'd been too short and less muscled. I remember that the boy from Five had fiery orange hair. Not so uncommon for that District, but still. Process of elimination, it was the boy from Six who had just raided our supplies.

Ok. So now I knew who it was. As much as I wrack my mind, I can't produce a name, but whatever. That's not an important detail right now. What is important, however-

"Ahhh!"

I glance toward the forest, my hand automatically going for a knife. Hang on, that sounds like my friend District Six.

His shouting quickly stops, and I'm too paranoid at this point to risk leaving the supplies unguarded again. Hopefully that means my allies found him...

... Except there's no cannon to signal a death.

Very disappointing. I'd like the chance to kill that boy myself, but if one of the other Careers got to him, I certainly wouldn't complain.

Doesn't seem likely, at this point.

Guess that means I can complain...

I sigh in disappointment and glance at my watch. There's been a lot of watch-glancing-at lately. Oh, it's almost twelve. I'm actually looking forward to it, even if I have to explain that some kid may have managed to steal some of our hard-earned (yeah, right) supplies.

Wavy is the one who shows up at twelve, her expression unusually serious. Typically she seems pretty good-humoured, especially in contrast to her stoic, taciturn District partner, but now she looks annoyed.

I'm gonna go out on a limb and say, _not a good sign_.

"What happened earlier?" she asks without preamble. "We heard shouting, but we were a bit preoccupied."

"Why don't you go first?" I suggest jokingly, but Wavy just stares at me flatly. Frankly, I don't see her as much of a threat, but Creston is someone I don't want to cross. He seems like the type who could be quite dangerous if he got angry. He and Wavy are definitely too close to be participating in the Hunger Games together.

"Ok, I'll go first..." I smile self-consciously and scuff the ground with one boot. "I know this is going to sound pretty bad but... I was sitting on the Cornucopia, so I guess the guy didn't see me, and this tribute – I think the boy from Six – just walked out and tried to take some supplies."

"And you didn't stop him?".

"I was so surprised..."

Wavy rolls her eyes. "The others aren't going to be happy. What did he take?"

"Not too much – just some jerky and a knife... I chased him, but he disappeared! Then I heard him shouting again, but I didn't want to leave in case other tributes tried to steal more supplies."

The auburn-haired girl sighs. "We heard him too, but like I said: we were busy. We found this girl – possibly District Seven-"

"It must've been District Seven, if she was older," I interrupt. "I made a list of the remaining tributes earlier... Anyway, not important," I add hastily, seeing that my interjection is only making Wavy more annoyed.

"Yeah, it must have been her then. So, we were chasing her but she just disappeared, like your boy," Wavy finishes.

I frown to myself. "Is there some aspect of the arena that we haven't discovered?"

Wavy shrugs. "I don't know. Use that brain of yours to figure it out."

"Uh, me? I'm not that smart," I chuckle, though I'm getting a bit worried. "Wouldn't you or Lyme be better at something like this...?"

"Whatever, Sureal. Just give it some thought," Wavy says impatiently. "I have to get back. Don't let anyone else steal our supplies again," she adds, glaring slightly.

"Yes ma'am," I say meekly, offering her a weak smile.

She stares at me for a moment, then jogs away and I'm once again alone.

Well, that didn't go too badly, if I say so myself. And now I have something else to occupy myself with: the question of where the other tributes have been disappearing to. There's no way they could outrun us to the point that we would lose sight of them in a matter of moments. Short of hiding behind the dead trees – not exactly prime hiding spots, or even decent ones – there aren't any other options. Sure, they could climb the trees if they were nimble enough, but the trees in this year's arena are neither tall nor do they have leaves so hiding in them would also be useless.

There must be something we're all overlooking. The thought frustrates me – I feel like we're wasting our time hunting at all. It's only thanks to Creston and Wavy's snares that we managed to catch our first real kill – the boy that Lyme put out of his misery doesn't count.  
>The mountains offer the same problem: how are the other tributes managing to avoid detection? Sure, we didn't go all the way up the mountain, but surely not all the tributes in that area would be grouped near the top? Like I said, normal tributes don't normally make alliances, so I can't imagine many of them staying in close quarters.<p>

The rest of the day passes uneventfully, though my paranoia remains strong so that I'm constantly watching for invaders. Of course, after District Six's theft, no one else appears. I spend a bit of time complaining about my choice to volunteer in my head – it's true that I could have assumed management of my father's diamond-making factory, but that's such a boring life. Not to mention it can be just as cutthroat as the Hunger Games, rival companies vying for the lucrative contracts with the Capitol, the cheapest and most efficient methods of production, and whatnot.

It's boring, and I hate to be bored. You might think that sort of backstabbing intrigue is right up my alley, considering my actions within the first few minutes of the Games, but it's rather more complex and your enemies will not be so obvious. You still want to be the last one standing, of course, but you can't very well openly eliminate them either.

Too much trouble, really, and becoming a Hunger Games victor is much more lucrative for far less effort.

As long as you ignore that pesky survival rate. I comfort myself with the thought that, as a Career, I have a better chance of surviving than the regular tributes. Luxy's face comes to mind as I think this, a stark reminder that a Career's odds aren't so different from the other tributes. I try to firmly ignore it, and the slight guilt that seems to have settled into the pit of my stomach.

I'm not guilty, damn it. Me killing Luxy was a mercy, almost. She practically broadcast her desire to die for me, so what does it matter if I killed her? Her life was mine anyway. Trust and friendship (or even love) have no place in the Hunger Games.

Yeah, it's easy to say that. Not so easy to live by those words.

Well, at this point I probably won't be living by those words, since I still have a 1/11 chance of winning, all issues of training and alliances aside.

Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), I'm in a pretty low mood by the time six o'clock rolls around. This is what happens when you spend all day (incompetently) guarding supplies.

The others interrogate me about District Six and the respect I seem to have gained from Cliff yesterday by saving his life is obviously lost because he keeps bringing it up during the evening.

Lyme doesn't speak up in my defence, either. I realize that this actually hurts me – which is troubling all in itself. I don't need her protection, and I definitely don't need to get attached to her. I mean, I just spent the whole afternoon convincing myself that, right?

Even though we keep the first watch together, I don't say a word to her, and she doesn't break the silence either. When it's my turn to sleep, I find myself unable to nod off, my thoughts and worries keeping me up almost all night.

* * *

><p>AN: Pfft, a bit of a shorter chapter, but I couldn't think of any action for someone on guard duty. What, I shouldn't have made the chapter from Sureal's POV in that case? ... Too late now.

The next chapter should be more interesting - it's from Cecil's POV - so I might get it out faster. ... Might.

Feedback of all sorts is always appreciated.


	14. Day o7

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

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><p><em>Day o7<em>

**Cecil Cross, District Eight**

"Cecil. Cecil." Shear's poking me in the ribs. "Cecil!" she hisses insistently, leaning back slightly when I blink blearily at her. Surely it can't be morning already. It doesn't feel like I slept at all.

"Shear, what is it?" I mumble, rubbing a hand over my eyes.

"Outside! Look," she says, and in my defence, the only reason I didn't notice in the first place is because we're camped out in a tree, so it's hard to see the environment beyond.

I squint out one of the holes in the tree – and flinch back in surprise. "The sun?" I say, blankly.

"I know!" Shear agrees, grinning. "Isn't it great?"

I smile back, unable to keep myself from wondering why the Gamemakers have changed the weather. The sun is bright, rising over the horizon. The only thing that's missing is the chirping of birds to herald the morning.

But really, I'm glad, because they'd probably be mutts, not the nice little songbirds I listen to before I get up.

"It's nice to see the sun again," I concede. And it is, it's just I can't shake the feeling that something's going to happen. The Gamemakers are probably annoyed at the slow pace this year. After a week, only a little over half the tributes are dead. But it's a relief to not have those gloomy clouds overhead. At least the clear blue sky is a reminder that there's some colour in the world, beyond the gray confines of this arena.

"Do you think we should leave yet? The anthem hasn't played yet-"

And the anthem starts playing as soon as Shear says this. We roll our eyes, trading grins. Over the past five days, Shear and I have really gotten close. I can't even bring myself to think of abandoning her, which I was seriously considering a few days ago. I know we can't both win – but I keep telling myself that I can't win in any case, so what's the point of spending my last days alone?

I don't say this to Shear of course, and we don't talk about it. I'm getting better at reading her, now that she's overcome her shyness towards me, but I don't have any idea what she's thinking about our chances of winning the Hunger Games.

"I guess that means we should get moving," I suggest, once the anthem finishes. Shear nods, and we both check for anyone nearby, through the holes in the tree. Shear goes first, carefully pushing the section of wood that we cut through last night out, then climbing out of the hollow tree. I follow, and we replace the panel.

No need to tell Careers that we've been using the trees themselves as hiding spots. Yesterday, we narrowly avoided an encounter with four of them.

Shear's stomach grumbles as we dust ourselves off from spending a night in the tree, and she blushes. I stuff the blanket into the pack, and pull it onto my shoulders. We ate the last of our provisions yesterday, around what Shear judged to be midday.

"We'll find something," I say with as much confidence as I can muster, giving her a reassuring smile. Shear smiles shyly back, though I don't think I have her completely convinced.

"Let's make a trip to the stream. Our water's low," she decides, and I follow her. Despite being about five years older than her, I'm not the 'boss' or anything. I mean, let's face, her survival skills are far more honed than mine. We're partners, I'd say.

She also has a much better sense of direction than me. Even though we spend our nights mostly unmoving in a tree, I still find myself disoriented when I leave it. It takes about an hour to reach the stream, as we were on the other side of the arena. We each finish off our respective water bottles – no point mixing unpurified and purified water, after all – then refill them and drop iodine tablets it.

We've mostly spent our days wandering the forest, but we've stayed relatively close to the Cornucopia. After the close encounter with the Careers last night, though...

"Maybe we should go deeper into the forest," I suggest, once our water errand is done.

Shear tilts her head to the side, considering. "Ok," she agrees at length. "Maybe there's something else in there, too."

I hear the unspoken _like a source of food_. My stomach gurgles in agreement, but we both ignore it. Food's not going to come to us, unless our mentors decide to send some. The hunger is a distraction, yes, but it's not too bad yet.

"If we don't find food tonight," Shear whispers, glancing uncertainly at me.

"Hey, I said we'd find some. But if not... Well, that's what our sponsors are for, right?" I aim a smile off into the trees, hoping there's a camera nearby to catch it.

Shear nods, and takes my hand. We walk away from the stream, then turn in the direction leading away from the Cornucopia (or so Shear tells me; I have no idea, myself).

The sun makes the temperature rise, enough so that it's comfortable rather than chilly, and by midday I'm unzipping my jacket slightly.

"What's District Eight like, Cecil?" Shear asks me abruptly, about fifteen minutes later.

I blink, not expecting the question. We've talked about our families, what we'd do if we win (although we both said 'when', not if, during the conversation itself) and some of our jobs within the District, but never about the actual District itself.

"Uh... Boring?" I say without thinking, then quickly laugh. "I mean, the landscape's all pretty uniform. You see one part of it, it's the same everywhere else," I hastily add.

Shear nods. "Are there lots of trees? Does it rain a lot? Is it cold?"

"Not lots. I mean, there's some. Not like Seven or Eleven, though," I answer. Honestly, I never really stop to look at what my District looks like. Eight is just... Eight. I don't pay attention to the scenery. "Well, I don't know what they're called because I didn't pay that much attention in Geography class..."

Shear gives me a disapproving look. I shrug in response: honestly, I don't much see the point in that class. It wouldn't have helped me in life, and it hasn't helped me with this arena, so... Eh.

"They have, uh, spikes? You know, they don't have leaves but they have cones and stuff instead of seeds-"

"... Coniferous," Shear supplies, rolling her eyes at me. Once again, the similarity between her and my sister is surprising; my sister would have done the same thing in this situation.

"Yeah. It's always sort of wet, like... humid. And it's not cold, but it's not really warm either?"

Shear giggles. "That really narrows it down."

"Yeah, yeah," I grumble, sighing theatrically. "So what's District Ten like, huh?"

My ally gets a little glossy-eyed as she remembers. I guess she likes her home better than I like mine. Well, it's not like I _dislike_ my District, it's just... not great. I'm indifferent, I guess.

"Prairies, long grass as far as the eye can see," Shear explains, a small smile I doubt she's even aware of on her lips. "There's some trees, around the town, but outside of that, there's only a few. Usually they're alone, in the middle of the plain."

"Cows, too?" I guess, grinning.

"Mmhm. And pigs and chickens. Some sheep, too. I guess the wool would go to District Eight," she adds, grinning back at me.

"Ah, yes, the wool. It's so fluffy," I say, a bit nonsensically just to hear Shear giggle. "But I don't like it that much. I think my favourite fabric would have to be suede. It's so soft."

Shear is giggling helplessly at this point, so we're understandably caught off guard when another tribute appears in front of us. I immediately pull my knife out of my belt when I spot him; he obviously heard us coming, because he has a knife out as well.

Shear belatedly does the same, her laughter abruptly stopping when she looks to see why I have suddenly halted.

All I can say is, this boy isn't a Career. His District, much less his name, is completely unknown to me.

The boy's eyes flick from my knife to Shear's. Sure, she's a little girl, but we still outnumber him. And I'm taller than him. I notice that his shoulder is bandaged, though there isn't blood soaking through it or anything.

"Who are you?" the boy asks suspiciously.

"I think that's our line," I respond, because really. He thinks he's the one in the position to ask questions? I don't _think_ so.

"Carson Block, District Six," he says reluctantly.

"Cecil Cross, District Eight," I answer. After a few seconds of silence, I add, "And this is Shear Harve, from District Ten."

Carson nods. "Not many of us left," he remarks. "We could be allies."

"That depends. Do you have any food?" I force myself to ask. I don't think adding another person to mine and Shear's partnership would really work. Carson doesn't seem all that nice – I guess being in the Hunger Games does that to you – and he'd probably see Shear as a liability. (_As he should_, some part of my mind rebelliously whispers, but I ignore it.)

Carson's looks away for a second, then hastily says, "No."

The guy's a horrible liar, but I'm not about to kill him for food... Though I'd probably get more sponsors if I showed some violent initiative.

"Then get out of here," I snap. "You think we're going to share our food with you?"

Carson hesitates, then turns and bolts away.

Shear and I continue on our way, deeper into the forest. Of course, we spend a lot of time glancing over our shoulders, in case he wants to try and ambush us.

After a while, she whispers, "Why did you tell him we had food? You both lied."

So she caught on that Carson did have food, huh? Well, I know that she's observant. "Well, if he knew we didn't have food, he'd try to bargain his way into forming an alliance with us. He'd have the upper hand, because he has food, but at the same time we still outnumber them. Any partnership we formed with him would be tenuous, at best," I explain, though I didn't have any such specific thoughts in my head when I turned him away.

I just wanted to protect Shear.

She nods thoughtfully, and we walk on in silence again.

The sun is starting to descend, so I'd say it's about mid-afternoon when we find the end of the arena, though that really wasn't our goal at all.

The stone wall that descended from the mountain apparently encircles the whole dead forest, blocking our way. There's a small opening for the stream to pass through beneath it, but it's far too small for even Shear to wriggle through. And that's assuming she can even swim, which I doubt.

It's a bit depressing to learn that there's nothing else in this forest but dead trees, I won't lie. The stone wall is completely vertical and smooth; there's not getting over it, at least not with our meagre supplies.

"... Well, at least we didn't find this running from Careers," I say, trying to lighten the mood. Shear gives me a weak smile, but of course our stomachs take that moment to remind us _why_ we wasted a whole day finding the borders of the arena.

"Have some water," I say, pressing Shear's water bottle into her hand. We're almost out of iodine tablets, too. Surely our mentors can at least send us that.

Surely we have enough sponsor money?

I've been telling myself the reason we haven't gotten any sponsor gifts is because we don't need them, but after we ran out of food yesterday, and with the rest of our supplies running dangerously low, I can't help but wonder if the fickle citizens of the Capitol have abandoned us.

I mean, this year's batch of Careers isn't that impressive. Besides the bloodbath, I can only assume that they've accounted for two other kills in six days. Not very entertaining, if you ask me.

Not that Shear and I have been any better, but no one expects us to provide that kind of gory show.

Shear drains her water bottle and goes to refill it in the stream, which has slowed to form a shallow pond at the base of the stone wall.

"Any fish?" I ask hopefully, following her over. No such luck.

"There's nothing," Shear cries, hurling her water bottle away, into the dust. For a moment I'm glad that I didn't get the chance to drop an iodine tablet in, because that would have been a terrible waste. Then I feel guilty, because while I'm nearing adulthood, Shear is still a child and shouldn't, more than anyone else in this arena, have to be in this situation. "Nothing in this whole, dead arena!"

_Except ants_, I don't say, because the thought of eating those creepy flesh-eating mutts is, well, gross and creepy. "Let's take a break," I suggest, collecting her fallen bottle. I dip it in the pool, to wash off the worst of the dust, then refill it and drop a tablet in. I tuck it back into the pack, and see that Shear is sitting against one of the numerous fallen trees.

"So what do you think about sleeping in one of these? It'll be sort of like lying down," I say, trying to cheer her up.

Shear looks up at me, her eyes shining with tears.

So, I panic a little. I mean, I hate it when girls cry around me. I never have _any_ idea what to do – do I hug them? Ask them what's wrong? Let them be? Seriously, I'm _awful_ in situations like this.

What do I blurt out? "Why don't you take a nap, Shear."

Like she's some little kid who needs a nap in the middle of the day.

That actually makes her stare at me in surprise for a moment, then her eyes narrow.

Oh, crap. I'm in for it, now. The look on my face is probably totally idiotic because as soon as I said it, I knew it was the most wrong thing to say.

Shear bursts out laughing, and does this weird thing where she leaps up from where she's sitting to hug me.

Wait, what?

I hug her back, rubbing her shaking shoulders. Oh yeah, she's crying now, amidst her laughter. Well, at least she answered the 'do I hug or not' question I was asking myself moments ago...

After ten more emotional minutes (no, I'm not tearing up a little – it's just the omnipresent dust, I swear!) we separate, grinning tearfully.

Apparently being in the arena has turned me into a pseudo-girl. I'm not sure how I feel about that...

"Might as well take a rest here," Shear says at length. "If there's a moon tonight, we can walk some more at night."

I nod in agreement and pull out my knife to begin making an entrance to our tree house. We carefully remove the section of trunk that I've carved out, and Shear steps inside.

"...Cecil, there's something in here," she says, her feet making a crunching sound.

Oh, what if it's an anthill! I shudder at the thought, taking a step back before I can stop myself. But Shear doesn't sound alarmed, just... confused and surprised.

"Wh-what is it?" I ask manfully. Not.

"Food!" she exclaims, triumphantly holding up a slightly crushed package of salted crackers. Well, that explains the crunching. "Look, there's jerky, and dried fruit too!" She gleefully pulls these out, and I see that there are two packages of each of the different kinds of food. She immediately opens the package of crackers she stepped on, and practically inhales two of them.

I make myself slowly eat one, because while it seems like a lot now...

"We should check the other fallen trees," Shear says excitedly, after she eats a strip of jerky and another cracker. I end up eating about the same amount of food, so we're down to one and half packages of crackers and one and three quarter packages of jerky, plus the dried fruit packages.

"Yeah," I agree, carefully packing our newest supplies into my backpack. Shear keeps the opened package of crackers, and one of the dried fruit ones, which she puts in her jacket pouch.

After repositioning the section of wood, we set off in search of another fallen tree. It's funny, I thought there were so many of them, but now that we're actively trying to find them, we realize that there aren't as many as it seemed.

We break into the next one we find – it has the same supplies, which we add to the backpack. Things are really starting to look up, now.

"Should we find more?" Shear asks. "Or do you think we should just get more when we need it. I think this is enough for now, carrying more might be too much."

While my first instinct is to protest that I can easily carry the backpack, I realize that Shear's right. There's no point in carrying around food that we don't, at this point, need. It's all conveniently hidden, and there must not be that many tributes in the forest (we've only seen the Careers and Carson) so I doubt anyone else will be finding them any time soon. Even if they do, there's only so much a person can carry. It'll work out.

With our supplies replenished, the depressed mood that had descended upon finding the edge of the arena has also been lifted. We return to the edge of the arena and decide to hole up in the first fallen tree like we had planned before finding the caches of supplies.

We eat the rest of the open crackers and jerky, and then one of the packages of dried fruit. Without the spectre of impending hunger hanging over our head, like it was when we finished off our other supplies yesterday, the food is actually pretty good, if a little dry.

Our next problem is going to be finding a new way to purify our water.

Fortunately, our mentors decide to come through and a silver parachute floats down, landing with a _thunk_ in front of me. Obviously, the gift is for me. Shear glances at me, and at my nod she eagerly rips it open. A matchbook, and another package of iodine tablets are the spoils.

So we have a week and a few days more of safe water supplies. We both thank our 'generous sponsors' – Shear a good deal more enthusiastically than me. I manage a smile that I think looks sincere, though.

"Do you want to take first watch, Cecil?" Shear asks, once we're both safely in the tree again. I won't lie, it was a little awkward the first few nights, but I've spent my fair share of nights with my younger sister huddled in my bed – nightmares, you know – so, like always, I fall back on the similarity of my sister and Shear to deal with it.

"Sure. I'll wake you when the moon's about halfway overhead?"

Shear nods, her eyelids already drooping. "Or if you're getting tired," she adds, deciding to use my chest as a pillow. I have to wonder how comfortable that is, but whatever.

"Yep. Will do," I agree, tucking the blanket more securely around her.

Within moments, her breath evens out, leaving me to periodically gaze out of the weird knotholes in the bark. The forest is a lot creepier in the dark, especially with the dim light of the moon. When the sky was permanently cloudy – I assume it was a ploy of the Gamemakers, of course – it was still brighter than it is now.

But having the moon back is comforting by itself, too. Now, if only it wasn't for this dead tree that I'm staying in, I could pretend I was back home. Who would have thought I'd actually want to go back to a place I only passively care about?

* * *

><p>AN: Aw, did anyone miss Cecil? I know I did, because I wrote this chapter in about two days, haha... (My updates will be as fickle as ever!)

Also it's nice to get a non-Career outlook, I think. None of that 'do I betray them now? no, it's too early. but I can't trust them!' that I found myself writing about a lot with Lyme and Sureal. XD

And Shear is getting a bigger part. I didn't intend for her to be such a big part, but Cecil needs someone to talk to and I find myself liking her... D:

More Career action next chapter, and a death. The two may or may not be related ~

Feedback is very much appreciated, for anyone who might be reading this.


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